Jane's been doing some reading. Of blogs, that is. First, there was a comment on her blog from Magdala a sub somewhere in the heartland of America. Magdala's blog is Magdala's Submission, and it is, to say the least, a hot read. When Jane first read it, she reported she got wet, and stayed wet, all day at work. Hmmm.
So, anyway, then there was Jane's realization that people are actually reading her blog. She put a counter on the blog earlier this week and all of a sudden more than a dozen people have perused her writings. Her little journal just for herself is suddenly out in the open and people are reading it.
Back to Magdala. Magdala is a good little sub, and I think this hit a cord with Jane. She's got submissive tendencies, but can't pull it off as a lifestyle. Well, or I can't pull of the dom thing 7x24. Whatever... Anyway, hearing that Magdala's blog got Jane all hot and bothered, I went over a took a read. Caught a few ideas.
So, last night, I climb into bed. We're resting next to each other, and I said, "So you like that blog, huh?" She replied, "I guess." I grapped her hair and started pushing her down toward my stiff cock. Let her be a little sub. "But I don't want to suck it." Not like I cared at that point. Pretty soon she was slurbing away at it; between deep sucks, she acknowledged she's a cum slut. I tasted her milk while feeling her wet cunt. She started out slow, but pretty soon was slick and humping my hand. Then I pulled her panties off, climbed atop her, and a good little fuck, my cock sliding into her wetness, our lips locked in a kiss.
This morning I woke up and took her from behind. As noted many times before: she likes it that way.
Yeh, so do I.
Thanks, Magdala; I appreciate your visit to our blogs.
To everyone else, feel free to post a comment with a link to your blog; we'd love to read.
Friday, June 25
Tuesday, June 22
Taking the argument to the open
Jane, what I take offense to is your insinuation that I can’t teach my sons how to be men.
Monday, June 21
Everyone is Blogging!
Blogging is taking over. First, we hear that select bloggers are going to receive press credentials at the Democratic Convention. Then, we learn that even President Clinton is keeping a blog.
What's next?
What's next?
Back home: reality sets in
I'm back home. The week away was good, but it sure wasn't reality. Here's reality: a messy house, three kids, Jane, and work responsibilities. Yeh, this is reality.
If this is reality, then it includes a healthy dose of sex. Arrived home the other night, and that evening Jane and I were scrumping like rabbits. Although, I'm not sure rabbits moan and flail about. ;-)
For Sam, and anyone else who is keeping track: we're eight weeks from the birth of the baby, and maybe six weeks since the breast feeding stopped... and there's still milk. We were in bed, and I was fondling Jane's breasts when she said there was still milk. A second later and the breast was in my mouth, me drawing the nibble deep inside. Yes, there was milk: warm & almost sweet. I had some from both sides, and then we fucked like mad. And then we took a break. And then, forty minutes later, were back at it.
Yeh, as much as I bitch and complain, it is nice to be home.
If this is reality, then it includes a healthy dose of sex. Arrived home the other night, and that evening Jane and I were scrumping like rabbits. Although, I'm not sure rabbits moan and flail about. ;-)
For Sam, and anyone else who is keeping track: we're eight weeks from the birth of the baby, and maybe six weeks since the breast feeding stopped... and there's still milk. We were in bed, and I was fondling Jane's breasts when she said there was still milk. A second later and the breast was in my mouth, me drawing the nibble deep inside. Yes, there was milk: warm & almost sweet. I had some from both sides, and then we fucked like mad. And then we took a break. And then, forty minutes later, were back at it.
Yeh, as much as I bitch and complain, it is nice to be home.
Friday, June 18
Round Two at Rolls Royce
These clubs are always the same, and yet always unique. Friday night at Rolls Royce: the cover has magically gone up since the other night. In the confusion with the ambulance, I slipped in for free, not knowing there was a cover. Tonight, I wasn’t so lucky, and I think they’ve jacked up the price for the weekend.
Busier tonight. Women in various stages of undress, a steady procession of couples headed upstairs. The DJ is obnoxious, cutting in to the songs with inane comments. Here downstairs, couples are leaning in to each other, lots of touching; girls on guys’ laps.
Nicole brings me my drink: Diet Coke. As I noted earlier, what’s the difference between a waitress and a dancer? Nicole is a knockout young lady with long straight brown hair, bright eyes, and a great smile. Oh, and a body that puts many of the dancers to shame. She’s showing the requisite four inches around the midriff. I ask her about Stephanie and she grins, “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” If Stephanie doesn’t show, perhaps Nicole will sit and chat. Were it not so busy, I’d ask her.
On stage, a dancer has her legs wrapped around a balding, bi-speckled man in a coat and tie. I catch her eye, and she smiles at me from over the guy’s shoulder. She doesn’t miss a beat, and he is oblivious as he’s surrounded by her flesh and warmth.
It’s an interesting culture. I wonder what it would be like to be in the business. Perhaps I could own a joint like this. Here in New England, where there doesn’t seem to be same moral constraints as in the Bible-thumping South, things look pretty good: fully nude, alcohol, lots of touching. A business owner couldn’t almost not go wrong: each dancer pays the house a nightly pay-out; for most clubs it runs something like forty or fifty bucks; that could add up to nearly two grand a day just from the dancers’ fees. Add in the bar, and it’s a veritable cash cow.
Summer dances, a clingy summer dress, strapless; she makes her hips and ass move in a way that just makes me want to jump up on stage and grind with her.
I get approached for upstairs dances by two women. I say “no.” I can’t say “yes” to everyone, but I hate to say no. Rejection. I don’t want to, but my wallet would cry foul sooner or later.
I could lose track of all time here: it’s always cool and dark and red; the music is loud. Like most gentlemen’s clubs, Rolls Royce has a huge runway; this one’s in the round with two brass poles. Most of the dancers use the pole as a prop, perhaps twisting around it casually. Summer used them as tools, somehow getting to the top of one, her legs wrapped around the pole, as she leaned backward toward the floor. Her breasts, full; her nipples so hard I can see them from fifteen feet away; they stand at attention, two soldiers guarding precious jewels.
Shift change, and as the dancers come and go, they look like the proverbial girl next door, although perhaps a bit more lithe. Damn, I wished I lived in that neighborhood.
Lap dance from Yvonne. Tall drink of water (she says she’s 5-10 in bare feet; she’s wearing four inch heels), long blonde hair, fake boobs. Fun, but alas, she knows she’s good looking and thus isn’t as much fun as she might otherwise be. Does that make sense? Musky perfume that pulled me in. But, I need some sort of connection beyond playful sarcasm; I need a little something that makes it seem less like the business it is.
I talk with Summer; we lean toward each other and talk about reality versus fantasy, how some guys don’t get that this is a world that’s not real. And then she tells me she’s dated guys she’s met at the club. I tell her not to tell me that; I’ll think my reality might be able to collide with her’s. Summer introduces me to Kristine. She joins us and sits back on the couch, running her hands all over her luscious body, tracing her bikini bottoms. Summer suggests I take her up stairs; Kristine is a good little toy, she tells me. We go upstairs for a little dance. I last just past one dance; she’s either really horny or a really good actress. While she dances, we talk. Rather, I listen and prompt, and she talks, all the while rubbing herself all over me. She claims she hasn’t had oral sex for four years (or maybe it was six; frankly, my mind was lost). She’s a handful, clearly. More long straight hair. Says she’s going through a divorce and hasn’t had sex in nearly forever; her husband claims she’s gained too much weight. Okay, she’s not a size 2, but she’s all woman with curves in all the right places.
Downstairs later, Kristine and I are talking, and I see Stephanie across the room, sitting at a table. She’s wearing a think white top with spaghetti straps, her pert breasts alive in the darkness. Kristine tells me she needs to head out; she’s day shift and has a night on the town with a bunch of girlfriends planned. They’ve rented a limo or a bus or some such and plan on having a huge, bar-hopping, drunken night. On her way to change, she stops by Stephanie to tell her I’m waiting in the shadows. I hadn’t asked her to tell Stephanie; I had told her I’d spent time with Stephanie the other night. A brief act, but a telling one: selfless.
Even in a place like this: decency. Summer had encouraged me to get a dance from Kristine, rather then trying to “sell” herself. Kristine told Stephanie I was at the club. Not cut-throat. In some ways, it’s a microcosm of the world outside; sure it has it’s own rules and boundaries, and in some ways its more predicable. But, it’s still human beings creating relationships.
On stage a dancer has her feet tucked behind her head. Damn. Earlier there’d been a little lesbian show: two dancers caressing and kissing each other on center stage. And, I’m told that later in the evening the “featured dancers” will go even further, playing with toys. Reminds me of the three most amazing things I’ve seen in a club like this:
Kristine had said she was going to call me while out with her friends… so we could hook up. Sure. That’s the outside world. While she’d been dancing on my lap, she almost kissed me on the lips; I wondered how out of her mind she might have been. She also made mention of “nice package” (it’s not bigger than others, or so I think) and “this would be nice to ride.” Ah, yeah, comments like that and I’ll be driven to believe the reality of Rolls Royce might collide with my outside, real-world reality. Sure, that’ll happen.
Later, back at my hotel, she doesn’t call, of course. But let’s say she does. She calls, buzzed and freaky. She’s in the lobby of the hotel, her girlfriends egging her on; they say she needs a good lay. I tell her to come on up. A minute or two later she’s at my door. I’m wearing comfortable Sponge Bob boxers and cotton pajama bottoms. She’s wearing a short little skirt and a tight top, all black. She steps in, eyes aglitter with anticipation (and alcohol). She crosses the threshold and falls into my arms, her large breasts pressed against my chest. We stumble back and fall into the king-sized bet. Our lips lock as I hold her head in my hands. I can taste the beer on her breath.
My hands travel tow her breasts. My fingers slide under her shirt and pull gently at her nipples. Pretty soon, she’s laying back propped up on the four pillows, her skirt pulled up around her waist, and I’m resting between her legs, my head pressed up against her, my tongue licking at the wetness of her pussy. She’s wet and moaning as I lick and bite; her hands grasp my bald head and pull me close to her. She’s moaning, growling, grinding, whispering, all at once. Six years, and I’m rewarding her long wait.
No, the reality of it is as I picture it” she’s out carousing with friends, traveling from bar to bar, from hot spot to hot spot, in a white stretch limo, the alcohol clouding her brain so that she doesn’t even remember my phone number stuffed in her skirt pocket.
The world of fantasy and the world of reality once again do not collide.
Busier tonight. Women in various stages of undress, a steady procession of couples headed upstairs. The DJ is obnoxious, cutting in to the songs with inane comments. Here downstairs, couples are leaning in to each other, lots of touching; girls on guys’ laps.
Nicole brings me my drink: Diet Coke. As I noted earlier, what’s the difference between a waitress and a dancer? Nicole is a knockout young lady with long straight brown hair, bright eyes, and a great smile. Oh, and a body that puts many of the dancers to shame. She’s showing the requisite four inches around the midriff. I ask her about Stephanie and she grins, “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” If Stephanie doesn’t show, perhaps Nicole will sit and chat. Were it not so busy, I’d ask her.
On stage, a dancer has her legs wrapped around a balding, bi-speckled man in a coat and tie. I catch her eye, and she smiles at me from over the guy’s shoulder. She doesn’t miss a beat, and he is oblivious as he’s surrounded by her flesh and warmth.
It’s an interesting culture. I wonder what it would be like to be in the business. Perhaps I could own a joint like this. Here in New England, where there doesn’t seem to be same moral constraints as in the Bible-thumping South, things look pretty good: fully nude, alcohol, lots of touching. A business owner couldn’t almost not go wrong: each dancer pays the house a nightly pay-out; for most clubs it runs something like forty or fifty bucks; that could add up to nearly two grand a day just from the dancers’ fees. Add in the bar, and it’s a veritable cash cow.
Summer dances, a clingy summer dress, strapless; she makes her hips and ass move in a way that just makes me want to jump up on stage and grind with her.
I get approached for upstairs dances by two women. I say “no.” I can’t say “yes” to everyone, but I hate to say no. Rejection. I don’t want to, but my wallet would cry foul sooner or later.
I could lose track of all time here: it’s always cool and dark and red; the music is loud. Like most gentlemen’s clubs, Rolls Royce has a huge runway; this one’s in the round with two brass poles. Most of the dancers use the pole as a prop, perhaps twisting around it casually. Summer used them as tools, somehow getting to the top of one, her legs wrapped around the pole, as she leaned backward toward the floor. Her breasts, full; her nipples so hard I can see them from fifteen feet away; they stand at attention, two soldiers guarding precious jewels.
Shift change, and as the dancers come and go, they look like the proverbial girl next door, although perhaps a bit more lithe. Damn, I wished I lived in that neighborhood.
Lap dance from Yvonne. Tall drink of water (she says she’s 5-10 in bare feet; she’s wearing four inch heels), long blonde hair, fake boobs. Fun, but alas, she knows she’s good looking and thus isn’t as much fun as she might otherwise be. Does that make sense? Musky perfume that pulled me in. But, I need some sort of connection beyond playful sarcasm; I need a little something that makes it seem less like the business it is.
I talk with Summer; we lean toward each other and talk about reality versus fantasy, how some guys don’t get that this is a world that’s not real. And then she tells me she’s dated guys she’s met at the club. I tell her not to tell me that; I’ll think my reality might be able to collide with her’s. Summer introduces me to Kristine. She joins us and sits back on the couch, running her hands all over her luscious body, tracing her bikini bottoms. Summer suggests I take her up stairs; Kristine is a good little toy, she tells me. We go upstairs for a little dance. I last just past one dance; she’s either really horny or a really good actress. While she dances, we talk. Rather, I listen and prompt, and she talks, all the while rubbing herself all over me. She claims she hasn’t had oral sex for four years (or maybe it was six; frankly, my mind was lost). She’s a handful, clearly. More long straight hair. Says she’s going through a divorce and hasn’t had sex in nearly forever; her husband claims she’s gained too much weight. Okay, she’s not a size 2, but she’s all woman with curves in all the right places.
Downstairs later, Kristine and I are talking, and I see Stephanie across the room, sitting at a table. She’s wearing a think white top with spaghetti straps, her pert breasts alive in the darkness. Kristine tells me she needs to head out; she’s day shift and has a night on the town with a bunch of girlfriends planned. They’ve rented a limo or a bus or some such and plan on having a huge, bar-hopping, drunken night. On her way to change, she stops by Stephanie to tell her I’m waiting in the shadows. I hadn’t asked her to tell Stephanie; I had told her I’d spent time with Stephanie the other night. A brief act, but a telling one: selfless.
Even in a place like this: decency. Summer had encouraged me to get a dance from Kristine, rather then trying to “sell” herself. Kristine told Stephanie I was at the club. Not cut-throat. In some ways, it’s a microcosm of the world outside; sure it has it’s own rules and boundaries, and in some ways its more predicable. But, it’s still human beings creating relationships.
On stage a dancer has her feet tucked behind her head. Damn. Earlier there’d been a little lesbian show: two dancers caressing and kissing each other on center stage. And, I’m told that later in the evening the “featured dancers” will go even further, playing with toys. Reminds me of the three most amazing things I’ve seen in a club like this:
- A woman smoke a cigarette. Yes, not with her mouth. Springfield, Massachusetts, some two decades ago.
- A woman launch a ping pong ball from her twat. Damn thing went a good five feet. The Banana Club in Amsterdam.
- A woman wrote a note. Yes, she stuck a Sharpie marker in her pussy and then squatted down and wrote me a note. I still have it. Same club in Amersterdam.
Kristine had said she was going to call me while out with her friends… so we could hook up. Sure. That’s the outside world. While she’d been dancing on my lap, she almost kissed me on the lips; I wondered how out of her mind she might have been. She also made mention of “nice package” (it’s not bigger than others, or so I think) and “this would be nice to ride.” Ah, yeah, comments like that and I’ll be driven to believe the reality of Rolls Royce might collide with my outside, real-world reality. Sure, that’ll happen.
Later, back at my hotel, she doesn’t call, of course. But let’s say she does. She calls, buzzed and freaky. She’s in the lobby of the hotel, her girlfriends egging her on; they say she needs a good lay. I tell her to come on up. A minute or two later she’s at my door. I’m wearing comfortable Sponge Bob boxers and cotton pajama bottoms. She’s wearing a short little skirt and a tight top, all black. She steps in, eyes aglitter with anticipation (and alcohol). She crosses the threshold and falls into my arms, her large breasts pressed against my chest. We stumble back and fall into the king-sized bet. Our lips lock as I hold her head in my hands. I can taste the beer on her breath.
My hands travel tow her breasts. My fingers slide under her shirt and pull gently at her nipples. Pretty soon, she’s laying back propped up on the four pillows, her skirt pulled up around her waist, and I’m resting between her legs, my head pressed up against her, my tongue licking at the wetness of her pussy. She’s wet and moaning as I lick and bite; her hands grasp my bald head and pull me close to her. She’s moaning, growling, grinding, whispering, all at once. Six years, and I’m rewarding her long wait.
No, the reality of it is as I picture it” she’s out carousing with friends, traveling from bar to bar, from hot spot to hot spot, in a white stretch limo, the alcohol clouding her brain so that she doesn’t even remember my phone number stuffed in her skirt pocket.
The world of fantasy and the world of reality once again do not collide.
Wednesday, June 16
Rolls Royce: Clubbing in New England
I pull up as an ambulance drives into the parking lot; this is the first club I could find in the city, and I'm not sure I want to spend the time looking for another. I park the rental car – a Jeep Grand Cherokee – and glance in the rearview mirror: they’re loading someone into the back. A load and go. By the time I get to the club’s entrance, the diesel engine of the rig is racing; they’re ready to go. I almost step in two huge pools of blood at the door.
I’m thinking I’ve never made an entrance like this. At first I’d thought maybe a customer had a heart attack – you know, the dancers got to him so much, a little over-excitement for a weak heart. But pooled blood at the door tells another story. I decide I don’t need the full story and head inside: it’s loud and dark and red. Half a Rolls Royce greets me as I cross the threshold. Who the hell cuts a Rolls in half?
No sooner have I sat down than a dancer is on me. She’s blonde and built, but her breasts are fake. I should tell you, I’m still in my suit from client meetings today. Perhaps I look like money. She’d be very disappointed to learn I have $38 in my pocket. She’s all over me, hands under my suit coat, rubbing my shirt. “I’m horny; come upstairs and we’ll get to know each other.” I tell her no, but it takes several utterances before she registers I’m serious. I need to get used to the club. She’s undone my tie and walks away, a pout on her lips that’s all act.
I do need to get the lay of the land. I can’t walk in, cold, to a place. Especially if I’ve never been there before. I need to get acclimated, get used to it.
Whenever I’m in a club, writing, I always get the “what are you writing.” The notion of a sex blog, even in a club like this, is foreign to many dancers. You’d think that working in the industry they’d have a notion about various aspects.
I’m approached by two dancers – each tells me their stage name, and then tells me their real name. I wonder why. Do I look like some trustworthy guy who needs to know the truth? Although I do know this is the only place in the world where a pretty, sweet young thing will hang out & flirt with an old, middle aged, bald guy like me.
Stephanie tells me she’s been dancing since Saint Patty’s Day. She can’t be a day over 19, long straight hair to the middle of her back, white mesh stockings with garters, a bright infectious smile, tangling sparkly earrings. Small breasts. A small waist. Real. I’m attracted.
We chat for a while; she is a day over 19; she’s twenty. Tall & petite. We chat for a bit and then head upstairs for a little lap dance. Topless. She sits me down on a low comfortable couch. She sits next to meet, close, until the start of the next song. Then she gets up, hovers over me, and then rubs against me. She’s positioned herself so the bouncer, sitting across the darkened room, can’t see me; I’m hidden by her lithe body and her hair. Her breasts are small, with tiny nipples. I’m not sure I’m allowed to touch them; I do. She grinds in to me. Her skin becomes wet with perspiration. Her perfume, some sort of vanilla, envelopes me. She grinds, always touching. I’ve grown rock hard, my cock would be tenting my suit trousers, but she’s on me; once she gets up and turns away, sitting on my lap so I am faced with her back, but generally she is atop me, grinding her crotch against mine. At the start of the fourth song, I come. I’m sure I utter something obscure. For the rest of the song, she rests on me; I hold her tight, my hands around her waist.
I was reminded of my ability to bring a woman nearly to the brink of an orgasm and then floundering. I wonder what sexual excitement she gets from this, if any. There’s a part of my that realizes this is all business, but there’s another part of me that wants her to get something in return. I had thought she was enjoying it, but, then, I just don’t know.
This place is full of young dancers… they’re all pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous, sort of a sampling of cute girl-next-door types. Hope was going to be a waitress here, but ended up dancing. I wonder how a young lady makes the leap from waitress to stripper. Sure, in some clubs there’s not much difference in the amount of skin shown, but not here. She’s a dancer, willing to bare it all. And she does; when we were upstairs, she moved her bikini bottom to show me her lips; they were full. In another place, in another life, I would have dived right in.
Across the way, a dancer is giving a lap dance at a table. The energy in the club has picked up, and Hope and I are surrounded now by dancers talking and moving about. The lap dancer has that faraway look; I’ve seen it before, disengaged.
Stephanie and I talk; somehow she gets me talking about my life. I tell her about Miller and a little about Jane. I become lost; my depression, which had been at bay, crept in. She leaned in to hug me, a real hug of meaning. Empathy.
While Stephanie is off changing, the dancer who first accosted me is back. “Let’s go upstairs now,” she says. “You look ready for pussy.” I try to explain I’ve had a good dance upstairs, got everything I wanted (and then some). “You haven’t had me. You haven’t had anything.” Oh, to the contrary I think. I’ve had my fill. “You don’t know anything,” she says with a snide accent.
I wonder if she knows her fake boobs and hardcore persona don’t do a thing for me. I like conversation beyond “Want some pussy?” Be likeable. Be real. Be compassionate.
Stephanie enters the room, having changed into a soft white top and short, hip-hugger pants. She’s so pretty, that even from across the room, my breath is stolen. She joins me, and we talk about her dream house she wants to build. She tries to draw it for me, but the scribbling on the paper makes no sense to me. But she is enthusiastic about the project and describes bits and pieces of the house so that I can almost see it. She says it’s clear in her mind’s eye. I pray that it comes true for her, that she creates that haven in the country, that her life is full of beauty and love, that the trials of her life (which she has alluded to) all slip away in some sense of usual life. We talk, she doodles, and I’m staring at her long neck, her upturned nose, her long features. I see the mix of Sicilian, French Canadian, and Mohegan she says are her ancestry. I’m staring, and she glances up; I blush. “Sorry,” I say. “I was staring.”
“Stare all you want,” she says, her smile wide showing perfect white teeth, her eyes sparkling even in the red dim light of the club.
I don't need to know the back story on the blood in the doorway. Right here, I've found what will make my heart stop; I'll be carted out by EMTs, another "load and go." And I think, that'll be alright with me...
I’m thinking I’ve never made an entrance like this. At first I’d thought maybe a customer had a heart attack – you know, the dancers got to him so much, a little over-excitement for a weak heart. But pooled blood at the door tells another story. I decide I don’t need the full story and head inside: it’s loud and dark and red. Half a Rolls Royce greets me as I cross the threshold. Who the hell cuts a Rolls in half?
No sooner have I sat down than a dancer is on me. She’s blonde and built, but her breasts are fake. I should tell you, I’m still in my suit from client meetings today. Perhaps I look like money. She’d be very disappointed to learn I have $38 in my pocket. She’s all over me, hands under my suit coat, rubbing my shirt. “I’m horny; come upstairs and we’ll get to know each other.” I tell her no, but it takes several utterances before she registers I’m serious. I need to get used to the club. She’s undone my tie and walks away, a pout on her lips that’s all act.
I do need to get the lay of the land. I can’t walk in, cold, to a place. Especially if I’ve never been there before. I need to get acclimated, get used to it.
Whenever I’m in a club, writing, I always get the “what are you writing.” The notion of a sex blog, even in a club like this, is foreign to many dancers. You’d think that working in the industry they’d have a notion about various aspects.
I’m approached by two dancers – each tells me their stage name, and then tells me their real name. I wonder why. Do I look like some trustworthy guy who needs to know the truth? Although I do know this is the only place in the world where a pretty, sweet young thing will hang out & flirt with an old, middle aged, bald guy like me.
Stephanie tells me she’s been dancing since Saint Patty’s Day. She can’t be a day over 19, long straight hair to the middle of her back, white mesh stockings with garters, a bright infectious smile, tangling sparkly earrings. Small breasts. A small waist. Real. I’m attracted.
We chat for a while; she is a day over 19; she’s twenty. Tall & petite. We chat for a bit and then head upstairs for a little lap dance. Topless. She sits me down on a low comfortable couch. She sits next to meet, close, until the start of the next song. Then she gets up, hovers over me, and then rubs against me. She’s positioned herself so the bouncer, sitting across the darkened room, can’t see me; I’m hidden by her lithe body and her hair. Her breasts are small, with tiny nipples. I’m not sure I’m allowed to touch them; I do. She grinds in to me. Her skin becomes wet with perspiration. Her perfume, some sort of vanilla, envelopes me. She grinds, always touching. I’ve grown rock hard, my cock would be tenting my suit trousers, but she’s on me; once she gets up and turns away, sitting on my lap so I am faced with her back, but generally she is atop me, grinding her crotch against mine. At the start of the fourth song, I come. I’m sure I utter something obscure. For the rest of the song, she rests on me; I hold her tight, my hands around her waist.
I was reminded of my ability to bring a woman nearly to the brink of an orgasm and then floundering. I wonder what sexual excitement she gets from this, if any. There’s a part of my that realizes this is all business, but there’s another part of me that wants her to get something in return. I had thought she was enjoying it, but, then, I just don’t know.
This place is full of young dancers… they’re all pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous, sort of a sampling of cute girl-next-door types. Hope was going to be a waitress here, but ended up dancing. I wonder how a young lady makes the leap from waitress to stripper. Sure, in some clubs there’s not much difference in the amount of skin shown, but not here. She’s a dancer, willing to bare it all. And she does; when we were upstairs, she moved her bikini bottom to show me her lips; they were full. In another place, in another life, I would have dived right in.
Across the way, a dancer is giving a lap dance at a table. The energy in the club has picked up, and Hope and I are surrounded now by dancers talking and moving about. The lap dancer has that faraway look; I’ve seen it before, disengaged.
Stephanie and I talk; somehow she gets me talking about my life. I tell her about Miller and a little about Jane. I become lost; my depression, which had been at bay, crept in. She leaned in to hug me, a real hug of meaning. Empathy.
While Stephanie is off changing, the dancer who first accosted me is back. “Let’s go upstairs now,” she says. “You look ready for pussy.” I try to explain I’ve had a good dance upstairs, got everything I wanted (and then some). “You haven’t had me. You haven’t had anything.” Oh, to the contrary I think. I’ve had my fill. “You don’t know anything,” she says with a snide accent.
I wonder if she knows her fake boobs and hardcore persona don’t do a thing for me. I like conversation beyond “Want some pussy?” Be likeable. Be real. Be compassionate.
Stephanie enters the room, having changed into a soft white top and short, hip-hugger pants. She’s so pretty, that even from across the room, my breath is stolen. She joins me, and we talk about her dream house she wants to build. She tries to draw it for me, but the scribbling on the paper makes no sense to me. But she is enthusiastic about the project and describes bits and pieces of the house so that I can almost see it. She says it’s clear in her mind’s eye. I pray that it comes true for her, that she creates that haven in the country, that her life is full of beauty and love, that the trials of her life (which she has alluded to) all slip away in some sense of usual life. We talk, she doodles, and I’m staring at her long neck, her upturned nose, her long features. I see the mix of Sicilian, French Canadian, and Mohegan she says are her ancestry. I’m staring, and she glances up; I blush. “Sorry,” I say. “I was staring.”
“Stare all you want,” she says, her smile wide showing perfect white teeth, her eyes sparkling even in the red dim light of the club.
I don't need to know the back story on the blood in the doorway. Right here, I've found what will make my heart stop; I'll be carted out by EMTs, another "load and go." And I think, that'll be alright with me...
Monday, June 14
No sex here...
Well, dear readers... here I am; I'm still here... currently traveling for the job... I'd like to report that there's been sex in my life, but there hasn't been.
Jane's at home with the baby. She IM'd me yesterday to report that she's still producing milk even though the baby has given up the breast and is taking formula. And I'm not at home to sample the goods.
There hasn't been much sex of late, actually. We did have a good scrumping session earlier this week, but I've lost interest. I think it's because I'm depressed. I've lost interest in sex. And a whole load of other things which used to bring me pleasure. And I can't stand my job. And I have a difficult time getting out of bed. I need to snap out of it and get back on track.
I do have to say the scrumping earlier this week was nice. We seem to always end up doing it doggy style with Jane's face buried in the pillows, with my ploughing into her wetness. Yeh, it feels so good to drive into her.
But it's not happening much. And I can't even seem to get up the energy to drive to some strip club here. I went online to see what's here and found a good dozen clubs. Ah, maybe later...
Jane's at home with the baby. She IM'd me yesterday to report that she's still producing milk even though the baby has given up the breast and is taking formula. And I'm not at home to sample the goods.
There hasn't been much sex of late, actually. We did have a good scrumping session earlier this week, but I've lost interest. I think it's because I'm depressed. I've lost interest in sex. And a whole load of other things which used to bring me pleasure. And I can't stand my job. And I have a difficult time getting out of bed. I need to snap out of it and get back on track.
I do have to say the scrumping earlier this week was nice. We seem to always end up doing it doggy style with Jane's face buried in the pillows, with my ploughing into her wetness. Yeh, it feels so good to drive into her.
But it's not happening much. And I can't even seem to get up the energy to drive to some strip club here. I went online to see what's here and found a good dozen clubs. Ah, maybe later...
Thursday, June 3
Returning home two days early...
Jane called me tonight to tell me she was returning from her trip north tonight; that's two days earlier than planned...
So, let's review:
1. Jane wants to not return back to work. She wants to be a stay-at-home mom,
2. Jane has no health insurance.
3. Mr. Winky has a job... actually, Mr. Winky has a full-time job and a part-time job and a part-time not-yet-making-any-money part-time self-employed gig.
4. Mr. Winky's parents, who have never before actually interfered in Mr. Winky's life and have been model, supportative parents, have strongly suggested Mr. Winky marry Jane.
5. Jane's car currently needs some $600 worth of repairs.
6. Jane has moved in with Mr. Winky. Now, Mr. Winky, Jane, and Miller live together full-time and Drew & Ralph are in the house a tad under half the time.
7. Oh, did I mention Mr. Winky thinks he may be depressed? Mr. Winky feels like he's under a huge amount of pressure. Maybe Mr. Winky needs to see a shrink, get on some cognitive behavioral therapy and maybe start taking happy pills to boot.
Ah, well, at least I'll likely get laid when Jane returns tonight...
So, let's review:
1. Jane wants to not return back to work. She wants to be a stay-at-home mom,
2. Jane has no health insurance.
3. Mr. Winky has a job... actually, Mr. Winky has a full-time job and a part-time job and a part-time not-yet-making-any-money part-time self-employed gig.
4. Mr. Winky's parents, who have never before actually interfered in Mr. Winky's life and have been model, supportative parents, have strongly suggested Mr. Winky marry Jane.
5. Jane's car currently needs some $600 worth of repairs.
6. Jane has moved in with Mr. Winky. Now, Mr. Winky, Jane, and Miller live together full-time and Drew & Ralph are in the house a tad under half the time.
7. Oh, did I mention Mr. Winky thinks he may be depressed? Mr. Winky feels like he's under a huge amount of pressure. Maybe Mr. Winky needs to see a shrink, get on some cognitive behavioral therapy and maybe start taking happy pills to boot.
Ah, well, at least I'll likely get laid when Jane returns tonight...
Wednesday, June 2
Things plod along...
Well, here we are, some six weeks after Miller's arrival. Jane has taken Miller and gone north to visit her family; her sister gave birth to a new daughter yesterday. I wonder what it is about Jane's family... She and two of her sisters all conceived within weeks of each other; it's like they have to do everything together.
So now the house is silent. Last night I climbed in bed around 7:30 and fell right asleep, fully clothed, the lights on, the front door unlocked, the car windows down, contact lenses still in my eyes. I think I needed the sleep.
Time with Jane has been pretty good these last few weeks. Last week she was utterly helpful to the point where I wondered what the hell was going on. She did the laundry, ran some errands for me, cooked, etc... And she was so sweet about it all, too... scary.
We screwed like rabbits once or twice. For those of you who were tracking, her milk is nearly dried up (this is what happens when you stop breast feeding), although I did get a little nibble the other night. Took a bit to get the draw, a deep sucking, drawing the nipple in. Later, I grabbed her hair and pushed her down to my crotch; she took my schlong in her mouth and sucked it fully, drawing it deep in her mouth, the wetness slurpping. Then we fucked -- and I say fucked, 'cause that's what it was: a mad humping, she on her knees with me behind her, my cock in her wetness, a mad pumping and pumping, her face buried in the bed and pillows and every once in a while me grabbing her hair and pulling her head up.
She IM'd me a little while ago, telling me she doesn't want to go back to work but be a stay-at-home-mom... you don't think the being nice, doing stuff around the house, and the great sex is a preamble to this, do you?
Oh, and then this past weekend, my father met Jane (Mom had been here to help with the baby a couple weeks ago)... my father pulled me aside and told me I should stop messing around and marry her... "She's a great mother," he said. I need to make things as right as possible...
Hmmm... What's going on here?
So now the house is silent. Last night I climbed in bed around 7:30 and fell right asleep, fully clothed, the lights on, the front door unlocked, the car windows down, contact lenses still in my eyes. I think I needed the sleep.
Time with Jane has been pretty good these last few weeks. Last week she was utterly helpful to the point where I wondered what the hell was going on. She did the laundry, ran some errands for me, cooked, etc... And she was so sweet about it all, too... scary.
We screwed like rabbits once or twice. For those of you who were tracking, her milk is nearly dried up (this is what happens when you stop breast feeding), although I did get a little nibble the other night. Took a bit to get the draw, a deep sucking, drawing the nipple in. Later, I grabbed her hair and pushed her down to my crotch; she took my schlong in her mouth and sucked it fully, drawing it deep in her mouth, the wetness slurpping. Then we fucked -- and I say fucked, 'cause that's what it was: a mad humping, she on her knees with me behind her, my cock in her wetness, a mad pumping and pumping, her face buried in the bed and pillows and every once in a while me grabbing her hair and pulling her head up.
She IM'd me a little while ago, telling me she doesn't want to go back to work but be a stay-at-home-mom... you don't think the being nice, doing stuff around the house, and the great sex is a preamble to this, do you?
Oh, and then this past weekend, my father met Jane (Mom had been here to help with the baby a couple weeks ago)... my father pulled me aside and told me I should stop messing around and marry her... "She's a great mother," he said. I need to make things as right as possible...
Hmmm... What's going on here?
