So, I’m standing in line to make the connecting flight last night, and suddenly I hear my name called with great enthusiasm. I turn and see a former colleague standing in line a couple of people behind me. Frankie. She’s wearing a fedora. So am I. A quick thought passed my mind: “Fedora? I didn’t know we both wear hats.”
Frankie is a little gem of a thing who used to work with me. She stands just a touch over 5 foot and has the most kick-ass little bod north of Miami. Well, perhaps I exaggerate slightly, but she’s dynamite. She moved on from Plaid to take a job with some computer consulting firm over in the Triangle. Let me say that life looked like it’s treating her well.
We hug, as you’re apt to do standing in line to board a plane and you see a soul you know. We chatted as the line moved slowly forward. I glanced at her boarding pass and realized her seat was in the same row as mine. We boarded the plane and headed toward the back of the bus, her to the window seat and me to the matching aisle, the awful middle seat between us. Stowing our gear, I mumbled something about hoping the middle seat stayed vacant.
It did stay vacant, and damn am I glad.
Frankie and I had flirted when we worked together. Okay, what attractive co-workers do I not flirt with, at least on some minor level. There’s always something. Well, we sat down and Frankie licked her lips, soft tongue brushing over her red lips. She asked if I’d get a couple of blankets as she was chilly. I should’a known something was up. I brought a couple of blankets and right before we pulled back from the gate, Frankie suggested a move to the middle seat so we wouldn’t have to raise our voices to talk. I slid over and buckled in; Frankie tossed a blanket over my lap.
By the time we were rolling down the runway, engines at max thrust, she had her hands on my inner thighs. By the time the front wheels lifted off the runway, she was rubbing my hardness through my khakis. By the time we reached ten thousand feet and the flight attendant announced we could turn on our approved electronic devices, she had pulled my zipper down and was giving me a hand job, her soft hands caressing my hot cock. By the time we had reached our cruising attitude of 23,000 feet, she had disappeared under the blue blanket and wrapped her full lips around my stiff cock.
I felt her up, later, but didn’t get a chance to really do much of anything as the flight was just too short. She had one small orgasm as we were landing, the runway dry, her slight pussy drenched.
I’m glad we don’t work together. We made a date for Sunday night; I’m promised her I’d make up for my lack of performance completion of outcomes.
Saturday, January 31
Friday, January 30
Homeward Bound
The January breezes of South Beach have been left behind (white sand and bronze breasts). Homeward bound, I am. Jane awaits me at home, snuggled under the quilt Kathleen made, spread wide with anticipation, wet in all the right places. I know this because before I stepped on this plane, my Blackberry announced this fact. She is showered, fresh, waiting, willing, the wanton slut she is.
Last night we had phone sex. I was in my hotel room, windows closed to the street below. She was in my bed, which se seems to have decided she’ll use whenever I’m not home. We chatted for a good twenty or thirty minutes before falling into some old pattern – talking about what we’ll do tonight when I get home. Her breathing became quicker as she touched herself, legs splayed wide. I could see it in my mind’s eye, her voice painting the picture for me. My breathing became quicker as I pulled at myself, hard and hot in my hand, slippery from the hotel’s lemongrass sage lotion; I was tingling. We came together, copper wire and fiber optics connecting us, the miles between us reduced to nothing.
When I dropped the phone into the cradle beside the bed, I had trouble focusing my eyes in the still unfamiliar room. Art deco. And, I couldn’t think of Jane, the woman carrying my yet-to-be-born son, a friend and lover, but not my love. Instead, I could only think of Alex -- who would have fit with the art deco furnishings of the room, her flapper, pin-up, sophisticated self melding with the reds and woods of the room -- and of Amy – her innocence and her “I’ve got confidence” which would have played well in my arms. Alex, who would appeal to my sense of rescue. Amy, who would satisfy my Madonna/Whore complex.
And, no, in my mind’s eye it wasn’t both of them together, but rather an either/or -- each to satisfy a different need, each to have a different need satisfied.
In my heart, however, I know whether Amy or Alex, and I’d be playing with fire.
Need I say I like the flames?
Last night we had phone sex. I was in my hotel room, windows closed to the street below. She was in my bed, which se seems to have decided she’ll use whenever I’m not home. We chatted for a good twenty or thirty minutes before falling into some old pattern – talking about what we’ll do tonight when I get home. Her breathing became quicker as she touched herself, legs splayed wide. I could see it in my mind’s eye, her voice painting the picture for me. My breathing became quicker as I pulled at myself, hard and hot in my hand, slippery from the hotel’s lemongrass sage lotion; I was tingling. We came together, copper wire and fiber optics connecting us, the miles between us reduced to nothing.
When I dropped the phone into the cradle beside the bed, I had trouble focusing my eyes in the still unfamiliar room. Art deco. And, I couldn’t think of Jane, the woman carrying my yet-to-be-born son, a friend and lover, but not my love. Instead, I could only think of Alex -- who would have fit with the art deco furnishings of the room, her flapper, pin-up, sophisticated self melding with the reds and woods of the room -- and of Amy – her innocence and her “I’ve got confidence” which would have played well in my arms. Alex, who would appeal to my sense of rescue. Amy, who would satisfy my Madonna/Whore complex.
And, no, in my mind’s eye it wasn’t both of them together, but rather an either/or -- each to satisfy a different need, each to have a different need satisfied.
In my heart, however, I know whether Amy or Alex, and I’d be playing with fire.
Need I say I like the flames?
Thursday, January 29
Back at the Cabaret: Round Two
Well, here I am. It’s some 48 hours later, and it’s the all the same: same scent in the air, same pounding music, same flashes of flesh. Sure, different dancers. Same waitress, thankfully. And, a much bigger crowd. Whereas the other night there were perhaps 30 customers, tonight it feels like twice that. Well, it’s Thursday, after all.
Outside, the palm trees sway in the January air; inside the heat builds from movement and played passion.
Across the room, Amy is busing a table; she leans over and I see cleavage, cleavage I didn’t notice the other night. I can see the shadows between her full breasts. And, when she turns, the tattoo on the small of her back is obvious – tonight there’s more skin showing between her black-clad ass and her black, tight top.
Amy brings my drink over and sits down. She’s all smiles – open like sunshine. She laughs and glances downward. She takes me in. Then she admits; she didn’t read this blog. I’d given her the URL, fully expecting, well, that she might read it, and hoping she wouldn’t, and yet hoping she would, and wanting her to, and yet not wanting her to.
I really don't want anyone in the real world to match this cyber world to my real self. Too much truth here...
The room is spiraling; I wonder if I should add alcohol to the mix. But it’s going around enough, and this is all natural.
I see Alex – she’d dissed me the other night. I’d asked her for a lap dance and she said no. She was ready to leave.
I catch Alex’s eye. She comes over: wide smile. She has the moves and the looks of the Twentieth Century: a cross between a Roaring Twenties’ flapper and a 1950’s pin-up. She dances for me; not a lot of contact, but full of sensuous moves; her hips are in charge. Her skin is the smoothest skin I have ever touched. I caress it: perfection. “Waxing. And coffee grounds,” she says. I’ll never think of coffee in the same way.
I ask Alex if I’m the typical customer. She smirks. It’s not a smile, but a true smirk. “No.” I wonder why. “The typical customer wants me to do illegal things.”
I’d never. Certainly, I’m a dog. After all, I’m a guy. Sure, I’d love to get to know Alex… or Amy… they’re both pretty, intelligent, vivacious: full of life. I’d like to get to know them on any number of levels. Alex – who claims her real name is Alexandra – went to a prep school (like me). I’m sure I know it; I've probably even been on the campus. Aside from the fact she’s some 20-plus years younger than I am, I suspect we have something in common… or at least we come from some similar background. Well, maybe not; she’s actually closer to the rarified air than I am.
She dances to Joe Cocker, “You can leave your hat on,” and then to the Stray Cats. Again. Again, I’m enthralled.
Alex dances, and I can’t write. Her hips move, and my pen remains stationary in my hand. A green, yellow, and read glitter tie tangling between her pert breasts; my black fedora on her had, black curls dangling from over her forehead; garter with bills dangling from it. I smile; I can feel my eyes brighten.
Another guy puts a bill in her panty string. I have a pang of jealousy, her drink on my table. Unreasonable. Unrealistic. Desire, unmatched.
She moves with water grace, a waterfall in motion – predictable but each moment different, a twist of movement, each droplet like the next but not like the rest, building upon the next, one after the other. I could stand under it, water washing my soul, each drop bringing sweetness to my lips. I want to dive in, stand under, my arms raised high, face uplifted, all enveloped in wet sweetness.
I wonder when that sweetness will find me, if ever. Not that I’m desperate for it, but it’s been so long since I’ve tasted the nectar. Kathleen for sure, in that rough hewn cabin along the shores of the Albemarle Sound. The years intervening have turned the sweetness; it's a palatable bitterness now when it touches my lips.
I wonder what a place like this does to us, men and women alike. Along the wall, three women dance for men, lap dances galore. One man’s hand grasps and caresses rounded ass and full breasts and flat belly. A mélange of hands, I’m not sure which is his and which is hers, the four hands caressing and rubbing like from one mind.
Alex notes the dancer, a pretty blonde wearing red, is disassociated. She’s dancing, laying back on the man’s chest, blank stare forward. The life has been tapped out of her. “Sexual trauma,” says Alex knowingly.
I want this to be safe and fun, but in this moment I realize it’s not, always. We are playing with fire; sometimes the flames burst so high as to turn the water to steam, a hissing sound on contact, the flames shooting upward, consuming all.
For the men, we think women are just for sex, exist to bring us pleasure and serve as eye candy. For the women, they feel degraded and less than equals; nothing but a toy to be groped, a flesh bot. In the intimacy of our primary relationships, well we still play out these roles?
I ask Alex how she knows who’s worth spending time with in order to reap the financial reward. “Shoes,” she replies. I wonder what the hell my Birks are saying.
Alex goes off to make some money. There’s a table of guys behind me who, several hours ago, had promised her a trip to the VIP Suite, worth some $200 plus to Alex. They blew her off. Now she’s gone back. It doesn’t last long; they accidentally spill beer on her; she heads upstairs to change.
Dickheads, I think. Amy agrees. One of these morons had gone upstairs to the VIP Suites with a dancer; he decided he didn’t want to pay the $400 fee. When he finally did, after much confrontation, he tipped Amy a whole $5. A fucking fiver on four hundred dollars.
All the dancers have different scents. As they pass by my table, my nose tickles: vanilla, lemon, raspberry, cherry, musk, cinnamon, and the list goes on. A veritable potpourri.
Sylvia chooses to lap dance next to my chair. Tan; full body; I can’t help but look as she rests into the guy, his crew-cut standing at attention. My eyes wander over her boyish-lined body, her nipples hard and pointy, darkness protruding and casting shadows. Nipples I’d like to tweak (see below). She catches me oogling, and tells me not to look; I shy away, not sure if she is serious or not, but not sure if I’ve violated some cultural norm I don’t know about.
Alex and I are playing Twenty Questions. Her father is a famous orchestral musician; she says I’d be able to find his work in nearly any, decent record store. Her mother is an art historian on the faculty of some university. Sometimes, when a dancer tells tale of her self, it’s all spin. I don’t want to think Alex is sitting at the wheel.
Alex is on stage, my pen stationary, my eyes glued to her fluid form. Colleen stops by my table and leans into me: “That guy over there wants me to go home with me. Every girl has her price, but $250? No way.” I wonder why she’s sharing this with me. Have I hung out my confessional or counseling sign?
I have two complexes which have reared their heads tonight. Alex shared some things about herself and her circumstances, and it all came bubbling to the surface. First, I have a Madonna/Whore complex. I am drawn to women who are both. Alex, product of a fashionable prep school and parents in the arts, can certainly play the Madonna. And, yes, she can play the other role, too. I wonder if, like Amy, she is “confident in the bedroom.” I suspect so.
I should say a bit of something about her lap dances, though. They actually tended toward the Madonna side. I’m not sure if that was for me, or if that is the way she is. One dancer came up to me while I was alone and said, “My breasts are big and very real and I’ll put your head right between them. Would you like a dance.” Hmmm, that was direct. I’m thinking that dance would tend toward the Whore side of the continuum. Alex’s dances were, well, art. Not like, say, dances at Lipstick which are all business. I mean, there was not much business with Alex.
My second complex is a Rescue Complex. I am compelled to rescue people. I really compelled to rescue attractive women, but I think that’s where my two complexes intertwine. Anyway, I’m a rescuer. And, yes, I could rescue Alex.
Amy has been swamped tonight – between assholes and the very volume of customers and the lack of other waitresses, it’s been a madhouse. Every once in a while, she’d blow past and apologize. Now, it’s time to close out and she’s headed home. She sits to socialize a bit. I can feel her tiredness. “Stick a fork in me,” she says. She leans back in the chair, eyes still sparkling. I want to gather her up in my arms and brush away the tiredness; I want to hold her tight, so tight that I can feel her heart beating. I don’t, of course, and she leaves after asking for my email address.
Alex comes by to say goodbye; she’s headed home for the night. I cajole her into giving me one more dance; it feels short and forced; I wanted to spend more time with her. I joke about stalking her; she knows I want to get to know her; I know she knows. It’s not that I want to tie her down and make her scream in ecstasy. (Okay, I’d like to do that, but that’s not what this is about; it’s about peeling back the layers of personality to see the real her. We had a moment when I started; she teared up, it was so strong, and I backed away. In some safe place, in some right moment, I want to dip into her soul and see what’s there.)
She is standing next to me, an awkward moment. She says, “Don’t sit too close at the ballet.” I look at her blankly. “You might see it’s too much of an effort.” The metaphor becomes clear, fluid, a waterfall bursting through the green of the jungle. I see her. I see the ballet. I’m sitting awfully damn close.
But doesn’t she understand? Sitting close is when it’s real. That’s life, in all it’s complicated, existential form.
I want to sit close. I want to sit close enough that the flames singe my eyebrows.
Outside, the palm trees sway in the January air; inside the heat builds from movement and played passion.
Across the room, Amy is busing a table; she leans over and I see cleavage, cleavage I didn’t notice the other night. I can see the shadows between her full breasts. And, when she turns, the tattoo on the small of her back is obvious – tonight there’s more skin showing between her black-clad ass and her black, tight top.
Amy brings my drink over and sits down. She’s all smiles – open like sunshine. She laughs and glances downward. She takes me in. Then she admits; she didn’t read this blog. I’d given her the URL, fully expecting, well, that she might read it, and hoping she wouldn’t, and yet hoping she would, and wanting her to, and yet not wanting her to.
I really don't want anyone in the real world to match this cyber world to my real self. Too much truth here...
The room is spiraling; I wonder if I should add alcohol to the mix. But it’s going around enough, and this is all natural.
I see Alex – she’d dissed me the other night. I’d asked her for a lap dance and she said no. She was ready to leave.
I catch Alex’s eye. She comes over: wide smile. She has the moves and the looks of the Twentieth Century: a cross between a Roaring Twenties’ flapper and a 1950’s pin-up. She dances for me; not a lot of contact, but full of sensuous moves; her hips are in charge. Her skin is the smoothest skin I have ever touched. I caress it: perfection. “Waxing. And coffee grounds,” she says. I’ll never think of coffee in the same way.
I ask Alex if I’m the typical customer. She smirks. It’s not a smile, but a true smirk. “No.” I wonder why. “The typical customer wants me to do illegal things.”
I’d never. Certainly, I’m a dog. After all, I’m a guy. Sure, I’d love to get to know Alex… or Amy… they’re both pretty, intelligent, vivacious: full of life. I’d like to get to know them on any number of levels. Alex – who claims her real name is Alexandra – went to a prep school (like me). I’m sure I know it; I've probably even been on the campus. Aside from the fact she’s some 20-plus years younger than I am, I suspect we have something in common… or at least we come from some similar background. Well, maybe not; she’s actually closer to the rarified air than I am.
She dances to Joe Cocker, “You can leave your hat on,” and then to the Stray Cats. Again. Again, I’m enthralled.
Alex dances, and I can’t write. Her hips move, and my pen remains stationary in my hand. A green, yellow, and read glitter tie tangling between her pert breasts; my black fedora on her had, black curls dangling from over her forehead; garter with bills dangling from it. I smile; I can feel my eyes brighten.
Another guy puts a bill in her panty string. I have a pang of jealousy, her drink on my table. Unreasonable. Unrealistic. Desire, unmatched.
She moves with water grace, a waterfall in motion – predictable but each moment different, a twist of movement, each droplet like the next but not like the rest, building upon the next, one after the other. I could stand under it, water washing my soul, each drop bringing sweetness to my lips. I want to dive in, stand under, my arms raised high, face uplifted, all enveloped in wet sweetness.
I wonder when that sweetness will find me, if ever. Not that I’m desperate for it, but it’s been so long since I’ve tasted the nectar. Kathleen for sure, in that rough hewn cabin along the shores of the Albemarle Sound. The years intervening have turned the sweetness; it's a palatable bitterness now when it touches my lips.
I wonder what a place like this does to us, men and women alike. Along the wall, three women dance for men, lap dances galore. One man’s hand grasps and caresses rounded ass and full breasts and flat belly. A mélange of hands, I’m not sure which is his and which is hers, the four hands caressing and rubbing like from one mind.
Alex notes the dancer, a pretty blonde wearing red, is disassociated. She’s dancing, laying back on the man’s chest, blank stare forward. The life has been tapped out of her. “Sexual trauma,” says Alex knowingly.
I want this to be safe and fun, but in this moment I realize it’s not, always. We are playing with fire; sometimes the flames burst so high as to turn the water to steam, a hissing sound on contact, the flames shooting upward, consuming all.
For the men, we think women are just for sex, exist to bring us pleasure and serve as eye candy. For the women, they feel degraded and less than equals; nothing but a toy to be groped, a flesh bot. In the intimacy of our primary relationships, well we still play out these roles?
I ask Alex how she knows who’s worth spending time with in order to reap the financial reward. “Shoes,” she replies. I wonder what the hell my Birks are saying.
Alex goes off to make some money. There’s a table of guys behind me who, several hours ago, had promised her a trip to the VIP Suite, worth some $200 plus to Alex. They blew her off. Now she’s gone back. It doesn’t last long; they accidentally spill beer on her; she heads upstairs to change.
Dickheads, I think. Amy agrees. One of these morons had gone upstairs to the VIP Suites with a dancer; he decided he didn’t want to pay the $400 fee. When he finally did, after much confrontation, he tipped Amy a whole $5. A fucking fiver on four hundred dollars.
All the dancers have different scents. As they pass by my table, my nose tickles: vanilla, lemon, raspberry, cherry, musk, cinnamon, and the list goes on. A veritable potpourri.
Sylvia chooses to lap dance next to my chair. Tan; full body; I can’t help but look as she rests into the guy, his crew-cut standing at attention. My eyes wander over her boyish-lined body, her nipples hard and pointy, darkness protruding and casting shadows. Nipples I’d like to tweak (see below). She catches me oogling, and tells me not to look; I shy away, not sure if she is serious or not, but not sure if I’ve violated some cultural norm I don’t know about.
Alex and I are playing Twenty Questions. Her father is a famous orchestral musician; she says I’d be able to find his work in nearly any, decent record store. Her mother is an art historian on the faculty of some university. Sometimes, when a dancer tells tale of her self, it’s all spin. I don’t want to think Alex is sitting at the wheel.
Alex is on stage, my pen stationary, my eyes glued to her fluid form. Colleen stops by my table and leans into me: “That guy over there wants me to go home with me. Every girl has her price, but $250? No way.” I wonder why she’s sharing this with me. Have I hung out my confessional or counseling sign?
I have two complexes which have reared their heads tonight. Alex shared some things about herself and her circumstances, and it all came bubbling to the surface. First, I have a Madonna/Whore complex. I am drawn to women who are both. Alex, product of a fashionable prep school and parents in the arts, can certainly play the Madonna. And, yes, she can play the other role, too. I wonder if, like Amy, she is “confident in the bedroom.” I suspect so.
I should say a bit of something about her lap dances, though. They actually tended toward the Madonna side. I’m not sure if that was for me, or if that is the way she is. One dancer came up to me while I was alone and said, “My breasts are big and very real and I’ll put your head right between them. Would you like a dance.” Hmmm, that was direct. I’m thinking that dance would tend toward the Whore side of the continuum. Alex’s dances were, well, art. Not like, say, dances at Lipstick which are all business. I mean, there was not much business with Alex.
My second complex is a Rescue Complex. I am compelled to rescue people. I really compelled to rescue attractive women, but I think that’s where my two complexes intertwine. Anyway, I’m a rescuer. And, yes, I could rescue Alex.
Amy has been swamped tonight – between assholes and the very volume of customers and the lack of other waitresses, it’s been a madhouse. Every once in a while, she’d blow past and apologize. Now, it’s time to close out and she’s headed home. She sits to socialize a bit. I can feel her tiredness. “Stick a fork in me,” she says. She leans back in the chair, eyes still sparkling. I want to gather her up in my arms and brush away the tiredness; I want to hold her tight, so tight that I can feel her heart beating. I don’t, of course, and she leaves after asking for my email address.
Alex comes by to say goodbye; she’s headed home for the night. I cajole her into giving me one more dance; it feels short and forced; I wanted to spend more time with her. I joke about stalking her; she knows I want to get to know her; I know she knows. It’s not that I want to tie her down and make her scream in ecstasy. (Okay, I’d like to do that, but that’s not what this is about; it’s about peeling back the layers of personality to see the real her. We had a moment when I started; she teared up, it was so strong, and I backed away. In some safe place, in some right moment, I want to dip into her soul and see what’s there.)
She is standing next to me, an awkward moment. She says, “Don’t sit too close at the ballet.” I look at her blankly. “You might see it’s too much of an effort.” The metaphor becomes clear, fluid, a waterfall bursting through the green of the jungle. I see her. I see the ballet. I’m sitting awfully damn close.
But doesn’t she understand? Sitting close is when it’s real. That’s life, in all it’s complicated, existential form.
I want to sit close. I want to sit close enough that the flames singe my eyebrows.
Wednesday, January 28
Tuesday, January 27
At the Cabaret
Some women have it. And some don’t . And those that do, have it in varying degrees.
Tonight, I swung by The Cabaret: I’m sitting in the dark eating chicken strips, across the room is a young lass; damn, she can flirt. A pot-bellied, balding, 50-something man is talking to her; she is sitting on a bar stool, looking up at him, straight on, full smile, fully engaged. From across the room, I can feel the sexuality, the spaghetti straps of her sensuous black dress resting on her shoulders, smooth and lightly tanned, black hair several inches below her shoulders.
I know it’s a skill, a learned skill. She can, I’m sure, turn it on and turn it off.
I wonder if any of the women in my life have that ability, to the extent of this dancer. I can tell from the guy’s body language, he’s captivated; and, I suspect he didn’t see the lotus opening its lovely petals to eat him alive.
I know I’ve been there – mostly in places like this. I remember a club in San Francisco I went to years ago; the dancer was young and gothic. Black hair. Black slinky dress. Black FM boots. Pale skin. We chatted, and I fell for her; after several bottles of champaign, it was time for her to go on stage. I had to leave; I couldn’t watch, didn’t want to spoil the image I had in my mind of her: pure, mid-westerner, unadulterated.
Looking back, I know she was anything but pure. Likely, she had a trunk full of toys under her bed. I my mind, I see her leaving the strip club and heading home, taking a deter to some Goth dance club in Oakland for an hour or two of dancing to the Goth beat, bass taking over her body, building a sweat for no one but herself. Once home, she’d drag her body, wet with anticipation, to bed. At some point, she’d be on her back, pale skin wet from sweat, her legs splayed wide; she’d be thrusting a huge dildo into her drenched pussy, her boyfriend unable to keep up and sprawled to the side, her ass thrusting off the bed through orgasm after orgasm, her wet cunt desiring full contact with the toy.
In my mind, I don’t think Kathleen or Jane or Beth or anyone else had that ability; or maybe when she’s really good, the guy doesn’t know it. The hormones have taken over and he doesn’t know a thing except for her eyes and her smile and a desire to be enveloped. Okay, perhaps I’ve been there… ;-)
So the dancer in question passes my table and catches my eye. She leans into me; I’m taken, and I know what she’s doing; and still, my heart beats faster and my stomach goes hard with a flutter.
“I’m Kitty,” she says, reaching for my hand.
“You must have hated your parents,” I say, “to have named you Kitty. All the children in school must have made fun of you.”
She chuckles, a full throaty chuckle, her full breasts in a black lace brassiere, pushing out; black panties; garter with fish net stockings.
My word. I could fall in so easily.
A few minutes later, Alex is on stage, dancing to Stray Cats. How do these girls know? It takes me home. She’s wearing a black bustier; sassy. Damn.
Gia stops by my table. She’s from North Carolina & had been dancing at The Cabaret for a couple of weeks. She’s trying too hard.
She walked up as I was drafting this post – long hand, I admit; I haven’t taken to WIFI or wireless posting yet, and the feel of the pen lets me think, and the process of writing lets me revise; although, with all tense shifts in this post, you’d think I didn’t revise a single line. “So young,” think I, “and trying so hard.” Cute, but not really my type. Wafer thin. Heavy makeup around the eyes.
A singer, she says. She picks up my hat from the table and cocks it to her head. And then a dance, she asks.
“Black dress,” say I, “to go with the black fedora.” She wanders off to change into a slinky black and white dress – pert, champaign-sized breasts, poking through the glittering fabric.
Amy, the waitress, sits down to visit with me. I tell her about what I’d seen with Kitty. I ask if she could “turn it on” like Kitty. Amy smiles demurely and glances down. “No,” she says. But I beg to differ. I can feel myself drawn in, a different way, not as forced, not as fake. Subtle. Real. Practiced in a non-professional way.
“I have confidence in the bedroom,” she tells me. As she saunters away, the swath of flesh between her panties and top shows the tattoo on the small of her back. “Yes,” I think. “Yes. You probably do have confidence in the bedroom.”
I don’t need to add that I have thoughts of wanting to find out.
There’s a formula in these clubs. And I know it entails somehow tapping into the male emotion, creating a desire for her to reach into his wallet and part with his money. As I did for Gia, but only after convincing her to change into the black dress to match the hat. Her dance was good, but almost too classy for me. Nothing like the dance at Lipstick last week.
Got me wondering: what were the other dancers like? Could they get me to forget all: hear nothing but the beat of the pounding music, smell nothing but her perfume, feel nothing but the smooth skin of her legs, see nothing but her eyes to fall into, taste nothing but the bead of sweat on her chest as she brushes it past my willing lips?
I want to find out, to conduct a scientific experiment, to try each one, to have each give it her best shot to get me to forget the outside.
I’d start with Amy, the waitress. I imagine if I asked, she'd slap me across my face, leaving a red mark I’d be hard pressed to explain tomorrow. Damn, I think I’d like that.
She’s across the room, standing by the bar, talking with the other waitress and the bartender, swaying to the music, long brown hair tossed in the breeze of movement. I’d like to see her confidence. She told me she had an old boyfriend who stalked her for a year after they broke up. He missed the sex, he told her. She must have a lot of confidence.
The waitress uniform at The Cabaret is sexy; even better than a nude woman. They wear panties with hose over top, and tight shirts – all black. And I’m thinking I like black.
Amy comes over and tells me she’s tired. Her smile is infectious; I want to talk with her, to keep her at my table, to hang out with her.
Yes, she’s got it.
Tonight, I swung by The Cabaret: I’m sitting in the dark eating chicken strips, across the room is a young lass; damn, she can flirt. A pot-bellied, balding, 50-something man is talking to her; she is sitting on a bar stool, looking up at him, straight on, full smile, fully engaged. From across the room, I can feel the sexuality, the spaghetti straps of her sensuous black dress resting on her shoulders, smooth and lightly tanned, black hair several inches below her shoulders.
I know it’s a skill, a learned skill. She can, I’m sure, turn it on and turn it off.
I wonder if any of the women in my life have that ability, to the extent of this dancer. I can tell from the guy’s body language, he’s captivated; and, I suspect he didn’t see the lotus opening its lovely petals to eat him alive.
I know I’ve been there – mostly in places like this. I remember a club in San Francisco I went to years ago; the dancer was young and gothic. Black hair. Black slinky dress. Black FM boots. Pale skin. We chatted, and I fell for her; after several bottles of champaign, it was time for her to go on stage. I had to leave; I couldn’t watch, didn’t want to spoil the image I had in my mind of her: pure, mid-westerner, unadulterated.
Looking back, I know she was anything but pure. Likely, she had a trunk full of toys under her bed. I my mind, I see her leaving the strip club and heading home, taking a deter to some Goth dance club in Oakland for an hour or two of dancing to the Goth beat, bass taking over her body, building a sweat for no one but herself. Once home, she’d drag her body, wet with anticipation, to bed. At some point, she’d be on her back, pale skin wet from sweat, her legs splayed wide; she’d be thrusting a huge dildo into her drenched pussy, her boyfriend unable to keep up and sprawled to the side, her ass thrusting off the bed through orgasm after orgasm, her wet cunt desiring full contact with the toy.
In my mind, I don’t think Kathleen or Jane or Beth or anyone else had that ability; or maybe when she’s really good, the guy doesn’t know it. The hormones have taken over and he doesn’t know a thing except for her eyes and her smile and a desire to be enveloped. Okay, perhaps I’ve been there… ;-)
So the dancer in question passes my table and catches my eye. She leans into me; I’m taken, and I know what she’s doing; and still, my heart beats faster and my stomach goes hard with a flutter.
“I’m Kitty,” she says, reaching for my hand.
“You must have hated your parents,” I say, “to have named you Kitty. All the children in school must have made fun of you.”
She chuckles, a full throaty chuckle, her full breasts in a black lace brassiere, pushing out; black panties; garter with fish net stockings.
My word. I could fall in so easily.
A few minutes later, Alex is on stage, dancing to Stray Cats. How do these girls know? It takes me home. She’s wearing a black bustier; sassy. Damn.
Gia stops by my table. She’s from North Carolina & had been dancing at The Cabaret for a couple of weeks. She’s trying too hard.
She walked up as I was drafting this post – long hand, I admit; I haven’t taken to WIFI or wireless posting yet, and the feel of the pen lets me think, and the process of writing lets me revise; although, with all tense shifts in this post, you’d think I didn’t revise a single line. “So young,” think I, “and trying so hard.” Cute, but not really my type. Wafer thin. Heavy makeup around the eyes.
A singer, she says. She picks up my hat from the table and cocks it to her head. And then a dance, she asks.
“Black dress,” say I, “to go with the black fedora.” She wanders off to change into a slinky black and white dress – pert, champaign-sized breasts, poking through the glittering fabric.
Amy, the waitress, sits down to visit with me. I tell her about what I’d seen with Kitty. I ask if she could “turn it on” like Kitty. Amy smiles demurely and glances down. “No,” she says. But I beg to differ. I can feel myself drawn in, a different way, not as forced, not as fake. Subtle. Real. Practiced in a non-professional way.
“I have confidence in the bedroom,” she tells me. As she saunters away, the swath of flesh between her panties and top shows the tattoo on the small of her back. “Yes,” I think. “Yes. You probably do have confidence in the bedroom.”
I don’t need to add that I have thoughts of wanting to find out.
There’s a formula in these clubs. And I know it entails somehow tapping into the male emotion, creating a desire for her to reach into his wallet and part with his money. As I did for Gia, but only after convincing her to change into the black dress to match the hat. Her dance was good, but almost too classy for me. Nothing like the dance at Lipstick last week.
Got me wondering: what were the other dancers like? Could they get me to forget all: hear nothing but the beat of the pounding music, smell nothing but her perfume, feel nothing but the smooth skin of her legs, see nothing but her eyes to fall into, taste nothing but the bead of sweat on her chest as she brushes it past my willing lips?
I want to find out, to conduct a scientific experiment, to try each one, to have each give it her best shot to get me to forget the outside.
I’d start with Amy, the waitress. I imagine if I asked, she'd slap me across my face, leaving a red mark I’d be hard pressed to explain tomorrow. Damn, I think I’d like that.
She’s across the room, standing by the bar, talking with the other waitress and the bartender, swaying to the music, long brown hair tossed in the breeze of movement. I’d like to see her confidence. She told me she had an old boyfriend who stalked her for a year after they broke up. He missed the sex, he told her. She must have a lot of confidence.
The waitress uniform at The Cabaret is sexy; even better than a nude woman. They wear panties with hose over top, and tight shirts – all black. And I’m thinking I like black.
Amy comes over and tells me she’s tired. Her smile is infectious; I want to talk with her, to keep her at my table, to hang out with her.
Yes, she’s got it.
Monday, January 26
Did she notice?
Today, I flew out of Raleigh-Durham headed for Miami. A bit after we got airborne, my seatmate, a young woman named Elizabeth, needed to head to the rest room. As I was in the aisle seat, and I’m sometimes a gentleman, I got up to let her out. In the aisle, I didn’t quite create enough room; her denim covered ass brushed up against me.
All of me. I was hard, rock hard.
The brush was a brush, but it seemed in my mind to stretch out – my hard cock tented against my khakis, her 20-year-old, mighty fit and fine ass brushing past me. I swear, I could feel the seams of her jeans.
Elizabeth is headed to southern California to visit her family, and her boyfriend. She goes to school at UNC. Tall, thick (in the right places) but fit, dark hair pulled tightly back in a bun, lips lightly glossed. Her face full and lush and begging for hands to caress. Earlier as we were waiting to push back from the gate, she leaned forward in her seat while talking on the phone. Her shirt slipped up and I could see the swath of flesh between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her t-shirt… silky smooth, curves in all the right places, and a three-inch tattoo of a rose in the small of her back.
Damn.
And we wonder why I was hard?
All of me. I was hard, rock hard.
The brush was a brush, but it seemed in my mind to stretch out – my hard cock tented against my khakis, her 20-year-old, mighty fit and fine ass brushing past me. I swear, I could feel the seams of her jeans.
Elizabeth is headed to southern California to visit her family, and her boyfriend. She goes to school at UNC. Tall, thick (in the right places) but fit, dark hair pulled tightly back in a bun, lips lightly glossed. Her face full and lush and begging for hands to caress. Earlier as we were waiting to push back from the gate, she leaned forward in her seat while talking on the phone. Her shirt slipped up and I could see the swath of flesh between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her t-shirt… silky smooth, curves in all the right places, and a three-inch tattoo of a rose in the small of her back.
Damn.
And we wonder why I was hard?
Friday, January 23
Rim Job
So, today I'm in a meeting with five other guys. It's getting late; we're all a bit punchy. I throw an empty plastic pop bottle to the trash can; it hits the rim and bounces out.
"Nice rim job," says one of the guys.
"Rim job?" think I. Doesn't he mean rim shot?
It took ten minutes for our little meeting to get back on track.
;-)
"Nice rim job," says one of the guys.
"Rim job?" think I. Doesn't he mean rim shot?
It took ten minutes for our little meeting to get back on track.
;-)
Tuesday, January 20
Falling into the abyss: a visit to Lipstick
Well, I went and did it... After more than 12 months at not walking into a strip club, I went to one tonight.
I'd like to say it was an accident. It wasn't.
I'd like to say the car pulled in on it's own. It didn't; I drove out of my way.
I'd like to say a friend pulled me along. Not so; I went alone.
Tonight I stopped by Lipstick, a little club on the outskirts of town. I arrived a little before 7pm. There were two cars in the parking lot. I walked in and the place was dead: the guy at the door and one dancer.
Lipstick is an interesting place. It's small. There's a very small runway that never gets used. In the front of the building is a lounge. The one dancer, Christina, was sitting on a leather couch watching TV. There was no music. Behind the lounge is another room, actually larger than the lounge. In the back room are seats, sort'a couch-like, built for one thing only: lap dances.
Lipstick is all about lap dances. To hell with runway dancing. This is a no-alcohol, dance-on-my-crotch, let-my-hands-roam-your-body place.
I sat down and chatted with Christina and then, after some short banter, we went back for a dance. Three, actually.
I gave Christina money for the juke box: three songs. Then, she led me to the back, sat me down on a bench, and stripped off her pants and top, leaving her in a frilly, white pair of slight panties. Christina's skin was bronze under the soft lights, her hair golden, her breasts full and real. She asked if I'd been there before. "Not for a while," I said. She then went over the rules for me: I could touch, but not her crotch and not her breasts. Then the music cranked-up and she started to slide her ass over my lap.
They don't call it a lap dance for nothing.
Her skin was hot and soft to the touch. Her ass full, but not too large; her waist accented.
In the middle of the second song, I came. I usually last much longer -- like 14 songs... at ten bucks a dance, that can be pricey. Christina slid along, maintaining a touch on my hard cock until the wetness escaped.
We didn't speak a word. Every once in a while, her head would be near mine, and I could hear a moan escape her lips. Once I came, she slowed a bit, almost cuddling. My hands traced her spine; my hands rubbed her ass; her fingers traced along my legs.
When the third song was finished, we were done; we chatted a bit; I paid her the money, along with a ten dollar tip (after all, she got me there quicker than most dancers in the past; who am I not to reward that?). Then we went back to the lounge and chatted a bit. She is a real estate agent who supplements her income by dancing a couple afternoons a week. Then, she was up and headed home.
I sat on the couch, watching Friends on the tube. Then I saw another dancer. Christina was cute, full; attractive in a I'll-give-you-a-second-look kind'a way. The other dancer, Jenna, was taller, thinner, with large -- but not too large (fake?) -- breasts, blonde hair to her back, deep blue eyes.
I wanted some of that.
Interesting. Christina was all about getting me off. And she did a great job. Jenna wasn't there. Sure, perhaps there was no way, since I'd gotten off not 40 minutes ago, my pants still wet and sticky from my load. We chatted in the lounge; she's a mother with three kids: 17, 15, 13. No way, thought I. Later, while she was dancing with me, my hand on her flat, hard stomach, the other hand on her slight ass, I could see the age in her face. Still, damn attractive, but closer in age to me than many of these young dancers, the college students and the fresh-faced women out looking for a quick buck. Three dances with Jenna.
I didn't come; it would'a taken another 10 dances.
Part of the problem might have been that we were talking while she was dancing. At one point we were talking about dancers falling into the abyss; you know, doing bad shit followed by bad shit and then spinning out of control.
Sort'a like my return to Lipstick... spinning out of control...
I'd like to say it was an accident. It wasn't.
I'd like to say the car pulled in on it's own. It didn't; I drove out of my way.
I'd like to say a friend pulled me along. Not so; I went alone.
Tonight I stopped by Lipstick, a little club on the outskirts of town. I arrived a little before 7pm. There were two cars in the parking lot. I walked in and the place was dead: the guy at the door and one dancer.
Lipstick is an interesting place. It's small. There's a very small runway that never gets used. In the front of the building is a lounge. The one dancer, Christina, was sitting on a leather couch watching TV. There was no music. Behind the lounge is another room, actually larger than the lounge. In the back room are seats, sort'a couch-like, built for one thing only: lap dances.
Lipstick is all about lap dances. To hell with runway dancing. This is a no-alcohol, dance-on-my-crotch, let-my-hands-roam-your-body place.
I sat down and chatted with Christina and then, after some short banter, we went back for a dance. Three, actually.
I gave Christina money for the juke box: three songs. Then, she led me to the back, sat me down on a bench, and stripped off her pants and top, leaving her in a frilly, white pair of slight panties. Christina's skin was bronze under the soft lights, her hair golden, her breasts full and real. She asked if I'd been there before. "Not for a while," I said. She then went over the rules for me: I could touch, but not her crotch and not her breasts. Then the music cranked-up and she started to slide her ass over my lap.
They don't call it a lap dance for nothing.
Her skin was hot and soft to the touch. Her ass full, but not too large; her waist accented.
In the middle of the second song, I came. I usually last much longer -- like 14 songs... at ten bucks a dance, that can be pricey. Christina slid along, maintaining a touch on my hard cock until the wetness escaped.
We didn't speak a word. Every once in a while, her head would be near mine, and I could hear a moan escape her lips. Once I came, she slowed a bit, almost cuddling. My hands traced her spine; my hands rubbed her ass; her fingers traced along my legs.
When the third song was finished, we were done; we chatted a bit; I paid her the money, along with a ten dollar tip (after all, she got me there quicker than most dancers in the past; who am I not to reward that?). Then we went back to the lounge and chatted a bit. She is a real estate agent who supplements her income by dancing a couple afternoons a week. Then, she was up and headed home.
I sat on the couch, watching Friends on the tube. Then I saw another dancer. Christina was cute, full; attractive in a I'll-give-you-a-second-look kind'a way. The other dancer, Jenna, was taller, thinner, with large -- but not too large (fake?) -- breasts, blonde hair to her back, deep blue eyes.
I wanted some of that.
Interesting. Christina was all about getting me off. And she did a great job. Jenna wasn't there. Sure, perhaps there was no way, since I'd gotten off not 40 minutes ago, my pants still wet and sticky from my load. We chatted in the lounge; she's a mother with three kids: 17, 15, 13. No way, thought I. Later, while she was dancing with me, my hand on her flat, hard stomach, the other hand on her slight ass, I could see the age in her face. Still, damn attractive, but closer in age to me than many of these young dancers, the college students and the fresh-faced women out looking for a quick buck. Three dances with Jenna.
I didn't come; it would'a taken another 10 dances.
Part of the problem might have been that we were talking while she was dancing. At one point we were talking about dancers falling into the abyss; you know, doing bad shit followed by bad shit and then spinning out of control.
Sort'a like my return to Lipstick... spinning out of control...
Monday, January 19
Here's a few suggestions...
I'm not sure, but I haven't found too many women who take this advice... perhaps I'm looking in all the wrong places?
I know. I know. That's evident.
I know. I know. That's evident.
Sunday, January 18
She's trading me in...
This morning, I'm awoken by an email: I'm trading you in.
I'm wondering how this is different from yesterday. I ask why.
I found my journal entry when I went to the psychic. I'm trading you in.
Okay, so now the both of us are re-racking our lives based on tarot card readers? We're like Mrs. Reagan and her influence on Dutch.
Again, I ask why.
She said I was going to meet my true love soon. That it is not you... something about mail and documents and I shouldn't sign.
Great. There goes the damn agreement (see October 4th, below).
So, me, I went back to the Marriott to find Angela, the southern twanging bartender. No joy.
And, needless to say, no sex today either.
I'm wondering how this is different from yesterday. I ask why.
I found my journal entry when I went to the psychic. I'm trading you in.
Okay, so now the both of us are re-racking our lives based on tarot card readers? We're like Mrs. Reagan and her influence on Dutch.
Again, I ask why.
She said I was going to meet my true love soon. That it is not you... something about mail and documents and I shouldn't sign.
Great. There goes the damn agreement (see October 4th, below).
So, me, I went back to the Marriott to find Angela, the southern twanging bartender. No joy.
And, needless to say, no sex today either.
Saturday, January 17
Last night...
Well, Jane came over last night... and, yes, we had sex...
((I'm not sure if we're still broken up... what the hell's the difference between being broken and not being broken?))
She called to say she wanted to come over for some more "break up sex." Sure. Whatever.
I ran around the house straightening a bit and then lit a slew of candles in my room and then stripped naked and raced under the sheets & comforter. A minute or two after landing in bed I heard her enter and call out my name... Oh, did I mention I'd tossed Sade's Love Deluxe on the stereo in the bedroom? Anyway, she came in the room and laughed and said she wanted to take a shower but since I was ready (and due to leave to go help a friend move furniture) she'd forsake the shower. She got on top of me and soon was wearing nothing but a pair of black panties. Er, those didn't last too long either.
I spanked her... oh, no reason... just 'cause... she liked it... her ass was getting redder and redder and she was whimpering little moans of enjoyment. I wanted to go down on her, but she said she didn't want me to: too gross down there, she said. Claimed that if she'd taken the shower, fine, but since she hadn't, nope. Fingers, yes. Tongue and mouth, no.
Sure. Whatever. I was horny, having been reading stories at Stories Online and not taking care of business. If she didn't want me to go down on her, her miss, not mine. She sucked my cock for a bit and then I got on top of her and slid my hardness along her wetness. Great combination, I think.
You can figure out the rest... ;-)
Tonight, she wanted to come back over. I, however, had spent the day in the field with my National Guard unit and wasn't up for it. Damn, I just wanted some alone time. She now claims that I'm not taking her needs into account and am being selfish.
There's just no win for me here, is there?
((I'm not sure if we're still broken up... what the hell's the difference between being broken and not being broken?))
She called to say she wanted to come over for some more "break up sex." Sure. Whatever.
I ran around the house straightening a bit and then lit a slew of candles in my room and then stripped naked and raced under the sheets & comforter. A minute or two after landing in bed I heard her enter and call out my name... Oh, did I mention I'd tossed Sade's Love Deluxe on the stereo in the bedroom? Anyway, she came in the room and laughed and said she wanted to take a shower but since I was ready (and due to leave to go help a friend move furniture) she'd forsake the shower. She got on top of me and soon was wearing nothing but a pair of black panties. Er, those didn't last too long either.
I spanked her... oh, no reason... just 'cause... she liked it... her ass was getting redder and redder and she was whimpering little moans of enjoyment. I wanted to go down on her, but she said she didn't want me to: too gross down there, she said. Claimed that if she'd taken the shower, fine, but since she hadn't, nope. Fingers, yes. Tongue and mouth, no.
Sure. Whatever. I was horny, having been reading stories at Stories Online and not taking care of business. If she didn't want me to go down on her, her miss, not mine. She sucked my cock for a bit and then I got on top of her and slid my hardness along her wetness. Great combination, I think.
You can figure out the rest... ;-)
Tonight, she wanted to come back over. I, however, had spent the day in the field with my National Guard unit and wasn't up for it. Damn, I just wanted some alone time. She now claims that I'm not taking her needs into account and am being selfish.
There's just no win for me here, is there?
Friday, January 16
Sex. No sex. Sex. No sex.
Friday afternoon and my first post in several days... there's been no sex... well, okay, maybe a little...
Today, Jane dropped me an email: "Wanna get together and have break up sex?" I noted back to her, "We already had break up sex... We can have I'm-not-mad-at-you-but-we're-still-not-dating-sex if you want."
Did I note she broke up with me. And then Monday night she came over and pretty soon ended up in my bed, squeaky clean from a long, hot shower... I slid between the sheets and nestled up to her & began to caress her full body. My fingers pulled at her nipples, stretching them; I slid my hands over her burgeoning belly, rubbing gently. Then I slid my hands down to her pussy; she was dripping wet; my fingers sliding all around her wetness, pulling at her lips.
Pretty soon, I was on top of her; she begged me to slide my hard cock into her. I made her ask for it over and over, and then I slipped it between her wet lips.
As we scrumped, I held her hands above her head. She tried to close her legs, to wrap them around me. I wouldn't let her. She's a little slut and needs to keep her legs spread for me. I reminded her. When she closed them, I'd squeeze her hands tight or reach down and pinch her breasts. She got the message: Jane's to keep her legs spread.
But, alas, we've broken up. Or so that's what she reminds me. And, I guess, that's okay. I mean, I'm still getting laid, and I don't see this relationship being sexual for the next 18 years. I've told her before that once the little guy gets here, we wouldn't have sex... Okay, that's probably not fair... it is, however, where I am...
Today, Jane dropped me an email: "Wanna get together and have break up sex?" I noted back to her, "We already had break up sex... We can have I'm-not-mad-at-you-but-we're-still-not-dating-sex if you want."
Did I note she broke up with me. And then Monday night she came over and pretty soon ended up in my bed, squeaky clean from a long, hot shower... I slid between the sheets and nestled up to her & began to caress her full body. My fingers pulled at her nipples, stretching them; I slid my hands over her burgeoning belly, rubbing gently. Then I slid my hands down to her pussy; she was dripping wet; my fingers sliding all around her wetness, pulling at her lips.
Pretty soon, I was on top of her; she begged me to slide my hard cock into her. I made her ask for it over and over, and then I slipped it between her wet lips.
As we scrumped, I held her hands above her head. She tried to close her legs, to wrap them around me. I wouldn't let her. She's a little slut and needs to keep her legs spread for me. I reminded her. When she closed them, I'd squeeze her hands tight or reach down and pinch her breasts. She got the message: Jane's to keep her legs spread.
But, alas, we've broken up. Or so that's what she reminds me. And, I guess, that's okay. I mean, I'm still getting laid, and I don't see this relationship being sexual for the next 18 years. I've told her before that once the little guy gets here, we wouldn't have sex... Okay, that's probably not fair... it is, however, where I am...
Monday, January 12
Does this count?
Tonight I went over to the bar at the Marriott in Raleigh to meet up with co-workers in town for a meeting; we had a bit much to drink... or, at least, I did... as I was leaving, I was paging Jane and the waitress, Angela, asked if I was emailing someone, and then she was giving me her email address and I was emailing her from my pager, and I'm wondering if she was flirting with me or was, rather, playing with me 'cause I was drunk... Eagads, sometimes life is too complicated if you think about it...
Perhaps I should stop thinking about it... rather than thinking about jumping the bones of some other 20-something sweet-heart...
Am I that shallow?
Perhaps I should stop thinking about it... rather than thinking about jumping the bones of some other 20-something sweet-heart...
Am I that shallow?
Saturday, January 10
Makes me want to be a teacher...
She looks like one of the students I see wandering nearby... I'm thinking of another career change... ;-)
She broke up with me...
Once again, Jane has broken up with me.
For the first seven months of our relationship, we broke up maybe once or twice a month. As you can tell, it didn't really work out. Then when Jane became pregnant, we decided to not break up, but knew our relationship would change when the baby arrived. I know; I know. Screwed up.
So, earlier this week, Jane announced she was breaking up with me. "Okay," thought I. I want to find the tarot reader's "J" anyway... maybe road trip to Richmond to see Julie and see the sparks would fly.
Tuesday night, after making the announcement, Jane stayed over. We slept in the same bed, but no hanky-panky. Last night she was over -- watching the boys for me while I had an evening meeting... then it was too late for her to make the trek back home to Durham, so she stayed the night. She went to bed first & I puttered around the house, heading to bed a bit after midnight. I brushed my teeth and then slid into bed, naked. She was asleep; I moved behind her and spooned. Soon her ass as moving back against my cock, and then I was hard, and she kept moving against me, grinding. And then I was fingering her, and she was sopping wet, and then she turned and pushed against my cock, and I was in her. And, damn, it felt good.
And around 6am, after a good night's sleep, we did it again.
But, she assures me, we've broken up. That was just the sympathy fuck or the good-bye screw... Okay...
For the first seven months of our relationship, we broke up maybe once or twice a month. As you can tell, it didn't really work out. Then when Jane became pregnant, we decided to not break up, but knew our relationship would change when the baby arrived. I know; I know. Screwed up.
So, earlier this week, Jane announced she was breaking up with me. "Okay," thought I. I want to find the tarot reader's "J" anyway... maybe road trip to Richmond to see Julie and see the sparks would fly.
Tuesday night, after making the announcement, Jane stayed over. We slept in the same bed, but no hanky-panky. Last night she was over -- watching the boys for me while I had an evening meeting... then it was too late for her to make the trek back home to Durham, so she stayed the night. She went to bed first & I puttered around the house, heading to bed a bit after midnight. I brushed my teeth and then slid into bed, naked. She was asleep; I moved behind her and spooned. Soon her ass as moving back against my cock, and then I was hard, and she kept moving against me, grinding. And then I was fingering her, and she was sopping wet, and then she turned and pushed against my cock, and I was in her. And, damn, it felt good.
And around 6am, after a good night's sleep, we did it again.
But, she assures me, we've broken up. That was just the sympathy fuck or the good-bye screw... Okay...
Sunday, January 4
Home, sweet home...
Arrived home last night after some time away... Jane was here at my house, waiting for. While she wasn't kneeling on the floor ready to suck me off, she was here... and waiting... and willing...
Some three minutes after walking in the door, we were in my bed, lips locked in a wet kiss... Soon her pants were off and I was between her legs, licking her. And then I had four fingers in her (she's getting loose); she went over the edge between my tongue and my fingers. The bed shook. The room spun.
We went to Osaka's after. I had a couple of whiskeys. Off in the corner, was a couple; he was probably in his fifties; she was maybe in her early thirties. He went up to sing, and she took a chair right by the stage. He sang, "Wise men... falling in love with you..." She looked up at him, as he sang, a deep, melodius voice; I could see the love in their eyes. He swayed and he held the mike in his hand. She stood up and slipped into his arms. He sang, they danced, she wrapped by his hands. One of his hands around her waist; one of her hands around his and the other resting on his chest.
I want that. I want to be with a woman who falls into my arms; I want to be with a woman who I really want.
Not helping matters today; watching Doc Hollywood. Ben Stone (Michael J. Fox) is now in the midst of finding that woman... and she is Lou, played by Julie Warner.
I could see myself on the lake, in the boat, under the fireworks with her...
Some three minutes after walking in the door, we were in my bed, lips locked in a wet kiss... Soon her pants were off and I was between her legs, licking her. And then I had four fingers in her (she's getting loose); she went over the edge between my tongue and my fingers. The bed shook. The room spun.
We went to Osaka's after. I had a couple of whiskeys. Off in the corner, was a couple; he was probably in his fifties; she was maybe in her early thirties. He went up to sing, and she took a chair right by the stage. He sang, "Wise men... falling in love with you..." She looked up at him, as he sang, a deep, melodius voice; I could see the love in their eyes. He swayed and he held the mike in his hand. She stood up and slipped into his arms. He sang, they danced, she wrapped by his hands. One of his hands around her waist; one of her hands around his and the other resting on his chest.
I want that. I want to be with a woman who falls into my arms; I want to be with a woman who I really want.
Not helping matters today; watching Doc Hollywood. Ben Stone (Michael J. Fox) is now in the midst of finding that woman... and she is Lou, played by Julie Warner.
I could see myself on the lake, in the boat, under the fireworks with her...
Friday, January 2
To hook up... or not hook up...
That is the question...
I'm not talking in the abstract here. I'm responding to an interesting article from Slate I just stumbled across. It's about professors and students...
I have an old college friend from my days in Gambier. Dwight's a professor now at a small, liberal arts college. A year or two ago I went to visit him one spring; you know, burn some vacation time and hang out on the quad kind'a thing.
Damn, the girls were mighty fine. I can see why he'd want to be a teacher, even if he is teaching about Europe in the Middle Ages (or whenever his specialty is). The coeds were mighty fine. And they knew it. I sat in a couple of classes, and it was clear to my untrained eye they were coming on to Dr. Dwight.
He told me the story of how, following a late night help session, a young lass followed him back to his office, shut the door behind them, and told him she'd "do anything" to get a passing grade. He claims he didn't take her up on the offer. Too bad. I can just imagine her on her knees in front of him, drooling all over his hard manhood.
Ah, that campus has a thing about professor/student relationships, particularly between profs and current students.
I'm not sure I could have been so firm in resisting, had it been me.
I can imagine one of these young things, low rise jeans and shirt a bit too small, flesh showing... she brushes up against me... she leans in and I can smell her hair, the freshness... she looks at me, coyly, eyes dropping... Oh, I'd be a goner...
I'm not talking in the abstract here. I'm responding to an interesting article from Slate I just stumbled across. It's about professors and students...
I have an old college friend from my days in Gambier. Dwight's a professor now at a small, liberal arts college. A year or two ago I went to visit him one spring; you know, burn some vacation time and hang out on the quad kind'a thing.
Damn, the girls were mighty fine. I can see why he'd want to be a teacher, even if he is teaching about Europe in the Middle Ages (or whenever his specialty is). The coeds were mighty fine. And they knew it. I sat in a couple of classes, and it was clear to my untrained eye they were coming on to Dr. Dwight.
He told me the story of how, following a late night help session, a young lass followed him back to his office, shut the door behind them, and told him she'd "do anything" to get a passing grade. He claims he didn't take her up on the offer. Too bad. I can just imagine her on her knees in front of him, drooling all over his hard manhood.
Ah, that campus has a thing about professor/student relationships, particularly between profs and current students.
I'm not sure I could have been so firm in resisting, had it been me.
I can imagine one of these young things, low rise jeans and shirt a bit too small, flesh showing... she brushes up against me... she leans in and I can smell her hair, the freshness... she looks at me, coyly, eyes dropping... Oh, I'd be a goner...
