A couple of people have asked me what I'm giving up for Lent. This is always a strange question as I'm not sure people really think about the "why" of giving something up during Lent. We give up, or so I think, that which is bringing us down, that which is keeping us from a wholesome relationship with God. This is pretty consistent in most religions, not just Christianity. I also think it's a time to take on something, to start doing something to bring into relationship.
So, what am I giving up? How about sex and carbohydrates.
So far, I'm pretty much failing. ;-)
The night of Ash Wednesday found Jane in bed with me, and we had some pretty good sex. I played with her nipples so much that even on Friday they were bothering her. I sucked them like a wild man. I put clothes pins on the nipples.
Thursday no sex (she got pissed at me 'cause I asked her about her weight; I guess it came off insensitively. But I'm worried. Her ankles are starting to swell. She's having a difficult time moving about, getting up, reaching down. I'm worried about her health and the baby's health, but I guess asking "Hey, have you gained weight in the last three days?" isn't really the way to exhibit a real sense of caring). Last night her sister, Deirdra, came back into town, and Jane hooked up with her near on midnight (after she spent 7 hours at the hospital with her two sick kids), so I went to bed alone. I wanked myself to sleep with images of Jane and Frankie, some sort of fantasy building up in my mind's eye.
I'd say jerking off is sex, too, contrary to how President Clinton might define sexual activity. So, I continue to fail at staying away from sex.
And as to the carbs. Shit, that's even worse. Thursday night, Drew convinced me to buy one of the Entenmann's cream cheese danish/coffee cake things. He had a healthy slice on Friday morning... and I ate the rest of it, except for an end that Jane ate late in the evening (she'd have had more, but by that time, I'd put the kill on it).
So, the carbs keep calling me.
At this rate, Lent is going to be very long, and I'm going to have extreme guilt all the way to Easter.
Saturday, February 28
Thursday, February 26
Some people, some friends...
Today I spoke with two old and dear friends... one from grad school and one from college... And, even though I don't speak with them often, we fell back into our old grooves: smiles, laughter, concern, love, and care all bubbling quickly to the surface.
So, how is it that I can feel so at ease with them, so secure, so willing to let it all hang out? There's no pretense, no games. I want that in all my relationships...
Lacey and I used to enjoy time together after classes in grad school. We'd hang out in the pub after class and toss back a few and then make out in the hall behind the juke box or in the car in the parking lot. Linette went to college with me in Gambier. We were long time friends who once or twice ended up in the sack for a night of soft & passionate sex. Both Lacey and Linette married, and each has a couple of children. And, I'd go to town with either of them, or both of them, in a heartbeat. But it's not the sex, at all, that defines the relationship. It's the love and caring; it's the desire for all good things to happen to the other. It's the holding up, not the holding down.
So, why do I raise this? Well, I'm wondering why it is that some friendships last forever and why some love can stretch a lifetime.
Anyone have the answer?
So, how is it that I can feel so at ease with them, so secure, so willing to let it all hang out? There's no pretense, no games. I want that in all my relationships...
Lacey and I used to enjoy time together after classes in grad school. We'd hang out in the pub after class and toss back a few and then make out in the hall behind the juke box or in the car in the parking lot. Linette went to college with me in Gambier. We were long time friends who once or twice ended up in the sack for a night of soft & passionate sex. Both Lacey and Linette married, and each has a couple of children. And, I'd go to town with either of them, or both of them, in a heartbeat. But it's not the sex, at all, that defines the relationship. It's the love and caring; it's the desire for all good things to happen to the other. It's the holding up, not the holding down.
So, why do I raise this? Well, I'm wondering why it is that some friendships last forever and why some love can stretch a lifetime.
Anyone have the answer?
Tuesday, February 24
What every blogger craves
Here's word, such as it is posted on Eurotrash, that Belle has received a book deal. That all we bloggers could be so lucky or talented...
New together: a summer afternoon away
And talking about ex sex… here’s my memory of one of my first times with a friend from long, long ago. We’d gone for a picnic. It was summer. We were much younger. We weren’t ex’s; we were new together…
We had hiked in, deep in the woods next to a creek flowing quickly past a little clearing in the woods. The trees stood tall; as sentinels they watched us enter the small meadow. The grass was think and luscious, and we spread a blanket on the grass and took in the blue sky. We took off our shoes and brushed our bare feet in the grass. It tickled. All was quiet except for the sound of the rushing water and the birds calling one another and our breathing, regular and paced.
We lay back on the blanket, thick with the matted grass beneath it; our fingers touched as we watched the traveling clouds and the trees bend in the soft breeze. The western woods of this fair state had never spoken to me like this before. At first, our fingers just touched, gently, and then they gripped each other. It was as if we needed to connect, as if we needed to demonstrate power and energy to each other.
Slowly, my fingers relaxed, and then I caressed her hands and then her arms. I could hear our breathing become regular and paced with each other, a giving up of individuality. Gently, my fingers rolled the skin and flesh of her arms, and then we moved toward each other, so that we touched the length of our bodies, bodies pressed, fully clothed, against each other. Slowly, our lips found the other’s, and we gently kissed. I could feel her heat, and my tongue found here: probing, teasing, playing. Our bodies gently ground into one another, our hands moving over each other’s body. My hands caressed her back, moving from the small of her back, upward; they touched her sweet neck, jaw, and cheeks as we kissed. I wanted to pull her closer, to pull her into me, but we remained on the blanket in the field surrounded by the woods under the bright sky, kissing and holding each other.
And gently, she led one of my hands to her chest, to touch her breasts. They were like ripe lemons beneath my fingers; I could feel the hardness of her nipples through the thin linen of her shirt. My fingers traced the curves of her breasts, and my breath quickened with hers. I pulled at the nipples, pulling gently through the cloth. I lowered my head and nibbled through the shirt, little quick bites.
With a sense of urgency, I raised my head and returned to kissing her lips, trailing my tongue along the line of her jaw to massage with my full lips her ears. The heat was immense, and I smelled a sweet reminder of some perfume from yesterday, a muskiness drifting to my nose. As we kissed, our hands continued to caress, to move, to roam. My hands traveled down her back, following her spine to her rear; they traced her curves and followed the crack of her ass; I pulled her closer, grinding my pelvis into hers as we kissed, tongues playing tag, and her hands grabbed my butt, pulling me taut.
I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top of me. My hands slid around her torso and massaged her front; her hair, like golden riches, teased my face. My hands found her waist and slid her shirt up, up past her flat belly, higher still to her pert breasts, and then over so that the fabric gathered at her neck bunched like a towel. She nibbled on my lips and her hands traced the lines of my face. Then, I rolled us over, so that she was under me, her legs wrapped around my body. We kissed, and then I dragged her shirt over her head.
My hands roamed slowly over her exposed flesh, resting first on her cheeks, then on her shoulders, then on her breasts. My fingers traced her nipple, pulling gently. Meanwhile, she began to unbutton my shirt, still with her lips kissing mine. Her fingers moved slowly, practiced, as they popped a button and then rubbed the flesh beneath, pausing to move her fingers through the hair on my chest. Soon my shirt was unbuttoned completely, and she worked to remove it; we rolled over again, and with her on top of me, our groins still massaging each other, I kissed her with passion unimagined. We were flesh to flesh, our chests rubbing each other, and I could feel her tongue teasing mine. Her tongue was hard and probing and pointed, and I returned with quick darts. Our hands met and squeezed together.
Overhead, the sky continued its brilliant kaleidoscope of movement, clouds drifting into one another with the wind. We could hear the wind in the nearby trees, the quiet sounds of the birds and insects, and the beating of our own hearts, and the soft movement of flesh on flesh; and that was all.
I began to kiss her neck, little quick nibbles of lips and tongue. And slowly, those kisses moved lower until they were centered on her breasts. I kissed around them, gently taking them into my mouth, sucking upward so that the nipple became the only thing in my mouth, clinched softly between my teeth, and I pulled, teasing the nipple. And then I moved to the other breast and repeated. My hands caressed her skin, moving over her breasts, slowly teasing. Then, my head moved lower, and I trailed kisses to her belly while my hands each massage a breast. And I kissed her belly button, my tongue dancing in the hole.
Then, I moved lower still, small kisses trailing downward to the top of her jeans. My hands slid down her body, coming to rest on her jeans. And I rubbed, hard, feeling the flesh beneath the tightness of the thick cotton fabric. And my fingers moved to the button and wrestled it open to reveal the zipper. Gently, still kissing flesh, I unzipped the jeans, slowly, kissing exposed flesh as the zipper ran its course. When I met her panties, I pushed the jeans apart and nuzzled the soft fabric of the panties. I could smell her musty sweetness. And then, my hands moved to the top of her jeans and pulled as she lifted her buttocks off the blanket. The jeans rolled off her hips and then crumpled down her legs, fabric gliding against soft tanned skin until the jeans were nothing more than a pile of blue next to us.
My hands caressed her legs, moving, circling, and sliding up. I lowered my head again to her crotch, and gently bit the colorful panties. My heart raced as I buried my head in her cotton-covered sweet pussy. Gently I tugged and licked, and a slight moan escaped her mouth. I was driven crazy as she asked me to lick her. Gently, I pulled her panties to the side and slid my tongue in. She was already wet with anticipation, and my tongue slid over her. I kissed and sucked and nibbled and bit and probed; when I could no longer contain myself, I stopped – only to slide the panties off and then spread her legs apart as I put my hands under her ass to raise her up slightly off the blanket.
As I breathed in her sweetness and my tongue tickled her pussy, she began to moan. She thrust her crotch into my face, moving against and with my tongue and lips. She was wet, and I slid a finger around to be with my mouth, probing. And suddenly, she bucked and buckled, overcome. Her cry shattered the silence of nature as she thrust her hips upward one last time to meet my eager mouth.
Her hands grabbed my head and pulled me up toward her face. I followed, willingly, trailing kisses up her sweaty body, stopping to pay attention to her belly button and her breasts. And then, we kissed. Wet. I could still taste her juices, and she licked with a sense of urgency. My still panted groin met her downy cunt in a grind.
With a single motion, we rolled over, placing her on top of me. Her hands traveled down my chest as we continued to kiss. Her hands found my jeans button and quickly unfastened it; the fly follows, and with no haste she reached for my penis, and a groan escaped my lips. Her fingers circled the head of my cock, and the groan became longer and deeper. She pulled gently, fingers circling and pulling, then moving down the shaft to strike upward again. My hips move, uncontrollably. With practiced ease, she took her hands away and slid jeans and boxers down my legs so that they too join the pile of blue next to us.
She leaned over and kissed me, full against my lips. Then she trailed kisses down my now taut body, teasing her way across and down my chest, through forests of thick hair, dancing momentarily at my belly button. Her dark hair fell across my grown as her lips moved lower; she kissed the tip of my dick as her hands cupped my balls, thumbs and fingers rolling the testicles. She took the very tip of my penis in her mouth; my breathing went shallow and quick. Her dancing tongue massaged the ridges of my cock as her mouth took in more of my manhood. Soon she was bobbing up and down; my hands had gone to my sides as my body was taut as a bowstring. Suddenly I cried out, the bowstring broke, and I came wildly in her mouth. Several more pulls and then her lips left my member and she moved to kiss me. I could taste my own come, and our tongues danced a quick jazz beat; there was nothing else in the world.
We rested, our bodies tight against one another, watching the open sky. We kissed, gently, and held each other tight, our bodies wrapped like a cocoon.
Later, the sound of the creek called us, and we entered the clear, cool water, naked. The water surrounded us as we frolicked, never really losing touch with each other. Rocks rose up out of the center of the stream, and we stretched out on a large, flat on. The water swirled madly. She rested with the lower half of her body in the water, pubic hair just visible under the water. She felt the force of the water; it danced on her body and massaged her pussy; it tickled her clit. Her breath became quick, moving with the rushing water. As I watched, her hands found her breasts. She grabbed and pulled and squeezed and was oblivious to everything but the water and her own desire. Then her right hand moved down her body until she was feeling herself, fingers working feverishly with the force of the water, a building and a striving to bring her body to a shattering orgasm.
New vs. Ex. I remember more stories like this, and I’ll vote for new.
We had hiked in, deep in the woods next to a creek flowing quickly past a little clearing in the woods. The trees stood tall; as sentinels they watched us enter the small meadow. The grass was think and luscious, and we spread a blanket on the grass and took in the blue sky. We took off our shoes and brushed our bare feet in the grass. It tickled. All was quiet except for the sound of the rushing water and the birds calling one another and our breathing, regular and paced.
We lay back on the blanket, thick with the matted grass beneath it; our fingers touched as we watched the traveling clouds and the trees bend in the soft breeze. The western woods of this fair state had never spoken to me like this before. At first, our fingers just touched, gently, and then they gripped each other. It was as if we needed to connect, as if we needed to demonstrate power and energy to each other.
Slowly, my fingers relaxed, and then I caressed her hands and then her arms. I could hear our breathing become regular and paced with each other, a giving up of individuality. Gently, my fingers rolled the skin and flesh of her arms, and then we moved toward each other, so that we touched the length of our bodies, bodies pressed, fully clothed, against each other. Slowly, our lips found the other’s, and we gently kissed. I could feel her heat, and my tongue found here: probing, teasing, playing. Our bodies gently ground into one another, our hands moving over each other’s body. My hands caressed her back, moving from the small of her back, upward; they touched her sweet neck, jaw, and cheeks as we kissed. I wanted to pull her closer, to pull her into me, but we remained on the blanket in the field surrounded by the woods under the bright sky, kissing and holding each other.
And gently, she led one of my hands to her chest, to touch her breasts. They were like ripe lemons beneath my fingers; I could feel the hardness of her nipples through the thin linen of her shirt. My fingers traced the curves of her breasts, and my breath quickened with hers. I pulled at the nipples, pulling gently through the cloth. I lowered my head and nibbled through the shirt, little quick bites.
With a sense of urgency, I raised my head and returned to kissing her lips, trailing my tongue along the line of her jaw to massage with my full lips her ears. The heat was immense, and I smelled a sweet reminder of some perfume from yesterday, a muskiness drifting to my nose. As we kissed, our hands continued to caress, to move, to roam. My hands traveled down her back, following her spine to her rear; they traced her curves and followed the crack of her ass; I pulled her closer, grinding my pelvis into hers as we kissed, tongues playing tag, and her hands grabbed my butt, pulling me taut.
I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top of me. My hands slid around her torso and massaged her front; her hair, like golden riches, teased my face. My hands found her waist and slid her shirt up, up past her flat belly, higher still to her pert breasts, and then over so that the fabric gathered at her neck bunched like a towel. She nibbled on my lips and her hands traced the lines of my face. Then, I rolled us over, so that she was under me, her legs wrapped around my body. We kissed, and then I dragged her shirt over her head.
My hands roamed slowly over her exposed flesh, resting first on her cheeks, then on her shoulders, then on her breasts. My fingers traced her nipple, pulling gently. Meanwhile, she began to unbutton my shirt, still with her lips kissing mine. Her fingers moved slowly, practiced, as they popped a button and then rubbed the flesh beneath, pausing to move her fingers through the hair on my chest. Soon my shirt was unbuttoned completely, and she worked to remove it; we rolled over again, and with her on top of me, our groins still massaging each other, I kissed her with passion unimagined. We were flesh to flesh, our chests rubbing each other, and I could feel her tongue teasing mine. Her tongue was hard and probing and pointed, and I returned with quick darts. Our hands met and squeezed together.
Overhead, the sky continued its brilliant kaleidoscope of movement, clouds drifting into one another with the wind. We could hear the wind in the nearby trees, the quiet sounds of the birds and insects, and the beating of our own hearts, and the soft movement of flesh on flesh; and that was all.
I began to kiss her neck, little quick nibbles of lips and tongue. And slowly, those kisses moved lower until they were centered on her breasts. I kissed around them, gently taking them into my mouth, sucking upward so that the nipple became the only thing in my mouth, clinched softly between my teeth, and I pulled, teasing the nipple. And then I moved to the other breast and repeated. My hands caressed her skin, moving over her breasts, slowly teasing. Then, my head moved lower, and I trailed kisses to her belly while my hands each massage a breast. And I kissed her belly button, my tongue dancing in the hole.
Then, I moved lower still, small kisses trailing downward to the top of her jeans. My hands slid down her body, coming to rest on her jeans. And I rubbed, hard, feeling the flesh beneath the tightness of the thick cotton fabric. And my fingers moved to the button and wrestled it open to reveal the zipper. Gently, still kissing flesh, I unzipped the jeans, slowly, kissing exposed flesh as the zipper ran its course. When I met her panties, I pushed the jeans apart and nuzzled the soft fabric of the panties. I could smell her musty sweetness. And then, my hands moved to the top of her jeans and pulled as she lifted her buttocks off the blanket. The jeans rolled off her hips and then crumpled down her legs, fabric gliding against soft tanned skin until the jeans were nothing more than a pile of blue next to us.
My hands caressed her legs, moving, circling, and sliding up. I lowered my head again to her crotch, and gently bit the colorful panties. My heart raced as I buried my head in her cotton-covered sweet pussy. Gently I tugged and licked, and a slight moan escaped her mouth. I was driven crazy as she asked me to lick her. Gently, I pulled her panties to the side and slid my tongue in. She was already wet with anticipation, and my tongue slid over her. I kissed and sucked and nibbled and bit and probed; when I could no longer contain myself, I stopped – only to slide the panties off and then spread her legs apart as I put my hands under her ass to raise her up slightly off the blanket.
As I breathed in her sweetness and my tongue tickled her pussy, she began to moan. She thrust her crotch into my face, moving against and with my tongue and lips. She was wet, and I slid a finger around to be with my mouth, probing. And suddenly, she bucked and buckled, overcome. Her cry shattered the silence of nature as she thrust her hips upward one last time to meet my eager mouth.
Her hands grabbed my head and pulled me up toward her face. I followed, willingly, trailing kisses up her sweaty body, stopping to pay attention to her belly button and her breasts. And then, we kissed. Wet. I could still taste her juices, and she licked with a sense of urgency. My still panted groin met her downy cunt in a grind.
With a single motion, we rolled over, placing her on top of me. Her hands traveled down my chest as we continued to kiss. Her hands found my jeans button and quickly unfastened it; the fly follows, and with no haste she reached for my penis, and a groan escaped my lips. Her fingers circled the head of my cock, and the groan became longer and deeper. She pulled gently, fingers circling and pulling, then moving down the shaft to strike upward again. My hips move, uncontrollably. With practiced ease, she took her hands away and slid jeans and boxers down my legs so that they too join the pile of blue next to us.
She leaned over and kissed me, full against my lips. Then she trailed kisses down my now taut body, teasing her way across and down my chest, through forests of thick hair, dancing momentarily at my belly button. Her dark hair fell across my grown as her lips moved lower; she kissed the tip of my dick as her hands cupped my balls, thumbs and fingers rolling the testicles. She took the very tip of my penis in her mouth; my breathing went shallow and quick. Her dancing tongue massaged the ridges of my cock as her mouth took in more of my manhood. Soon she was bobbing up and down; my hands had gone to my sides as my body was taut as a bowstring. Suddenly I cried out, the bowstring broke, and I came wildly in her mouth. Several more pulls and then her lips left my member and she moved to kiss me. I could taste my own come, and our tongues danced a quick jazz beat; there was nothing else in the world.
We rested, our bodies tight against one another, watching the open sky. We kissed, gently, and held each other tight, our bodies wrapped like a cocoon.
Later, the sound of the creek called us, and we entered the clear, cool water, naked. The water surrounded us as we frolicked, never really losing touch with each other. Rocks rose up out of the center of the stream, and we stretched out on a large, flat on. The water swirled madly. She rested with the lower half of her body in the water, pubic hair just visible under the water. She felt the force of the water; it danced on her body and massaged her pussy; it tickled her clit. Her breath became quick, moving with the rushing water. As I watched, her hands found her breasts. She grabbed and pulled and squeezed and was oblivious to everything but the water and her own desire. Then her right hand moved down her body until she was feeling herself, fingers working feverishly with the force of the water, a building and a striving to bring her body to a shattering orgasm.
New vs. Ex. I remember more stories like this, and I’ll vote for new.
Monday, February 23
Sex with the ex... sometimes known as ex-sex
Quote of the day: Ex-sex sure seems to be a theme in my past failed relationships -- I had ex-sex for an entire year with my first girlfriend. Jason was astute enough to ask, "Isn't that called dating?"
My thanks to Three Angry Guys for the post.
Me, I'm all in favor of ex-sex. I think ever since my first serious girl friend I've enjoyed ex-sex. It's safe. And psychologically distructive. And I'm all about that... ;-)
Your thoughts?
My thanks to Three Angry Guys for the post.
Me, I'm all in favor of ex-sex. I think ever since my first serious girl friend I've enjoyed ex-sex. It's safe. And psychologically distructive. And I'm all about that... ;-)
Your thoughts?
Frankie's trying to hook me up...
Here I am in Chicago... I'd like to say it's warm here... well, it is, sort'a; it's 45, a veritable heat wave for the windy city...
But, you're not tuning in to hear the latest weather reports from the midwest. No, you're wondering what's up with the life of the Sausage Maker.
Here's the latest:
Frankie's decided I need someone other than Jane, so she gave my number to a friend of hers, Tammy. Tammy called me last week, and we chatted on the phone a bit. Then we decided we'd see each other in person. I'm not sure why Frankie thinks Tammy's a match for me. She's my age (or older); I'm attracted to women who are at least a couple of years younger than me. She owns four cats; I am deathly allergic to cats. She's pretty vanilla; I'm still figuring out the freak in my own life.
Whatever. So, last night we went to the movies at the mall. We'd talked about it; I'd told her that the best deal was to pick a movie that was old, so we'd be the only folks in the theatre. We'd sit in the back row in the corner and make out during the movie, perhaps cop a feel or two, maybe a little heavy petting or oral sex. We decided on Along Came Polly since it has been out for a while. We snagged the premo seats and sat in the shadows, nestled against each other. Didn't do a whole lot except snuggle; I played with her ears. We kissed, a bit, after the movie ended.
When I got home, she called to tell me I missed out, that she would'a slept with me. She said she was sitting in the theatre nestled up against me all comfortable and wet from anticipation.
It's too bad there's no good place to watch the submarine races at home. Here in Chicago, I'll bet the subs ply the waters of Lake Michigan making for some great races.
We'll just have to see what happens with Tammy; I'm thinking Frankie is off on this one. And I think the tarot reader agrees. I stopped in, already, for a little reading. She was a little distracted, and gave a reading similar to the one in December. More of the same: soulmate approaching & trying to get to me, but something holding her back... a new job in the next 6-months with a raise (I just applied for a couple of jobs over at the Plant)... moving out of state in a couple of years... the woman-who-is-pregnant-with-my-child wants more out of our relationship. Actually, it was a fairly generic reading, now that I think about it: there was nothing absolutely specific like my soulmate is named "J" or the letter I received in December was from my soulmate. No, all I got this time from Theresa was assertions which are likely true for most Americans in the early spring of 2004.
In the mean time, here I am in the Windy City, wondering if I should check out the local ballet... ;-)
But, you're not tuning in to hear the latest weather reports from the midwest. No, you're wondering what's up with the life of the Sausage Maker.
Here's the latest:
Frankie's decided I need someone other than Jane, so she gave my number to a friend of hers, Tammy. Tammy called me last week, and we chatted on the phone a bit. Then we decided we'd see each other in person. I'm not sure why Frankie thinks Tammy's a match for me. She's my age (or older); I'm attracted to women who are at least a couple of years younger than me. She owns four cats; I am deathly allergic to cats. She's pretty vanilla; I'm still figuring out the freak in my own life.
Whatever. So, last night we went to the movies at the mall. We'd talked about it; I'd told her that the best deal was to pick a movie that was old, so we'd be the only folks in the theatre. We'd sit in the back row in the corner and make out during the movie, perhaps cop a feel or two, maybe a little heavy petting or oral sex. We decided on Along Came Polly since it has been out for a while. We snagged the premo seats and sat in the shadows, nestled against each other. Didn't do a whole lot except snuggle; I played with her ears. We kissed, a bit, after the movie ended.
When I got home, she called to tell me I missed out, that she would'a slept with me. She said she was sitting in the theatre nestled up against me all comfortable and wet from anticipation.
It's too bad there's no good place to watch the submarine races at home. Here in Chicago, I'll bet the subs ply the waters of Lake Michigan making for some great races.
We'll just have to see what happens with Tammy; I'm thinking Frankie is off on this one. And I think the tarot reader agrees. I stopped in, already, for a little reading. She was a little distracted, and gave a reading similar to the one in December. More of the same: soulmate approaching & trying to get to me, but something holding her back... a new job in the next 6-months with a raise (I just applied for a couple of jobs over at the Plant)... moving out of state in a couple of years... the woman-who-is-pregnant-with-my-child wants more out of our relationship. Actually, it was a fairly generic reading, now that I think about it: there was nothing absolutely specific like my soulmate is named "J" or the letter I received in December was from my soulmate. No, all I got this time from Theresa was assertions which are likely true for most Americans in the early spring of 2004.
In the mean time, here I am in the Windy City, wondering if I should check out the local ballet... ;-)
Saturday, February 21
Have my recent postings sucked?
Jane claims the Sausage Factory is a bore now. She says my recent postings have become boring, uninspiring. Whereas before I wrote interesting commentary on life, now all I write about is sex and strip clubs.
So, gentle reader, here is the question: is Jane right? Has the Sausage Factory lost it's edge? Have I become nothing more than another sex blogger, no where near as interesting as Belle, or Pagan, or the Dirty Whore, or the Newlywed, or the Housewife? Am I just a wanna be sex blogger and not a professional?
Jane thought I should write about our trip to the hospital today to take a tour of the birthing center & our discussion afterward about baby names, with Ralph and Drew weighing in vehemently on their choices & making false claims that in Drew's case his mother didn't have a say in his name.
Or maybe I should write about my dreams for the future? or my latest poem? or the dinner I cooked... or didn't cook?
Or would I be more likely to write about our quickee while the boys were downstairs playing PlayStation. She was napping, and I laid down beside her and started to play with her nipples. Soon I had her shirt pulled up and her big breasts out of the confining bra, and I was sucking on the breasts, drawing into my wet mouth the big brown nipples.
So, folks, what are your thoughts? Don't lurk, comment.
So, gentle reader, here is the question: is Jane right? Has the Sausage Factory lost it's edge? Have I become nothing more than another sex blogger, no where near as interesting as Belle, or Pagan, or the Dirty Whore, or the Newlywed, or the Housewife? Am I just a wanna be sex blogger and not a professional?
Jane thought I should write about our trip to the hospital today to take a tour of the birthing center & our discussion afterward about baby names, with Ralph and Drew weighing in vehemently on their choices & making false claims that in Drew's case his mother didn't have a say in his name.
Or maybe I should write about my dreams for the future? or my latest poem? or the dinner I cooked... or didn't cook?
Or would I be more likely to write about our quickee while the boys were downstairs playing PlayStation. She was napping, and I laid down beside her and started to play with her nipples. Soon I had her shirt pulled up and her big breasts out of the confining bra, and I was sucking on the breasts, drawing into my wet mouth the big brown nipples.
So, folks, what are your thoughts? Don't lurk, comment.
Friday, February 20
Back at the Winner’s Circle
In the distance, the hills of eastern Kentucky disappear in the dusk. Inside the Circle, it’s all shadows, a red glow casting a pleasing hue over everything, the stackable hard chairs, the torn couches along the walls, the gritty mirrors, the rough hewn runway, and the bump-and-grind of the dancers…
If Nora Jones knew her songs were dancing classics at the Circle, I think she’d be pleased. Nora’s voice brings out the sway of dancers’ hips. I’m into hips at the moment. I’m not sure how this happened, but I seem to see the sway of hips everywhere. When Alex danced to Coker, it was all hips, a movement like water, waves at the beach. Here at the Circle, the sway of hips is prevalent also. Susan, tall, strawberry blonde, thin, sensuous moves flows from side to side, a sensuous movement, long legs swaying, a motion of a wispy fog…
Autumn reminds me of a former colleague, Angela. Angela worked over at the Plant as a quality assurance manager. We went on the road a couple of times; it was a race for me to keep up. Her husband was a fighter jockey for the Corps. Like all fighter pilots, he liked his planes and women fast. Autumn reminds me of her, her face, her smile, the sway of her body when she moves down the runway. Autumn can move her hips and her smile is real. A little tuft of trimmed hair above her slit & she’s not afraid to finger herself on stage, a wet pinkness showing.
Even not at the rail, I feel compelled to tip each dancer. After all, it is entertainment, and I am being entertained. A couple of young guys are sitting behind me, a little tight with their bills. I’m reminded of one of my friends who was skilled in sitting behind big tippers, reaping the rewards of the show without risking capital.
I’m willing to risk a bit. Particularly since I know this is fantasy land and the dancers have the same concerns we all have. Christine sits with me between chatting up some of the others customers looking for private dances. She has everyday concerns; today her daughter got her license. She arrived at the Circle after taking care of her family, cooking dinner and helping with homework. She’s not a drunk; she’s not a drug addict. She’s a mother; a wife; she’s making ends meet….
I watch Christine working; she sits down with the two guys behind me. Young guys with ball caps. She leans in and smiles wide, showing her white teeth. I can see they’re interested, but they don’t know the drill, thinking this is some bit of reality. I hear her say, “I’m worth it.” It’s the hard sell. But I’m not sure they realize it’s entertainment, like playing the lottery or going to the movies.
I decide to take in some entertainment. Christine agrees to dance for me. I’ll never listen to the Eagles and Hotel California the same way again.
I sit in the same chair as my last visit. Soon she is gently on me, dragging her soft flesh over my body. She puts her one nipple, then the other, in my mouth. She gently bites my cock through my khakis. She brushes her body from her cunt to her forehead along my face. She nibbles at my ears. She kisses me, gently and briefly, on my lips. And she does it with a real smile on her face, a true sparkle of joy in her eyes. When the music is over, I am, again, overwhelmed.
I am certain her husband is a lucky man. Does he know it? Most men (I include myself in this) don't know a good thing when they have it. We become complacent... I wonder if she gets worked up while at work. Is any of it arousing for her, or is it only work. Does she go home to her husband all hot an bothered, ready for a good roll in the hay? If so, I’d like to be him… ;-)
If Nora Jones knew her songs were dancing classics at the Circle, I think she’d be pleased. Nora’s voice brings out the sway of dancers’ hips. I’m into hips at the moment. I’m not sure how this happened, but I seem to see the sway of hips everywhere. When Alex danced to Coker, it was all hips, a movement like water, waves at the beach. Here at the Circle, the sway of hips is prevalent also. Susan, tall, strawberry blonde, thin, sensuous moves flows from side to side, a sensuous movement, long legs swaying, a motion of a wispy fog…
Autumn reminds me of a former colleague, Angela. Angela worked over at the Plant as a quality assurance manager. We went on the road a couple of times; it was a race for me to keep up. Her husband was a fighter jockey for the Corps. Like all fighter pilots, he liked his planes and women fast. Autumn reminds me of her, her face, her smile, the sway of her body when she moves down the runway. Autumn can move her hips and her smile is real. A little tuft of trimmed hair above her slit & she’s not afraid to finger herself on stage, a wet pinkness showing.
Even not at the rail, I feel compelled to tip each dancer. After all, it is entertainment, and I am being entertained. A couple of young guys are sitting behind me, a little tight with their bills. I’m reminded of one of my friends who was skilled in sitting behind big tippers, reaping the rewards of the show without risking capital.
I’m willing to risk a bit. Particularly since I know this is fantasy land and the dancers have the same concerns we all have. Christine sits with me between chatting up some of the others customers looking for private dances. She has everyday concerns; today her daughter got her license. She arrived at the Circle after taking care of her family, cooking dinner and helping with homework. She’s not a drunk; she’s not a drug addict. She’s a mother; a wife; she’s making ends meet….
I watch Christine working; she sits down with the two guys behind me. Young guys with ball caps. She leans in and smiles wide, showing her white teeth. I can see they’re interested, but they don’t know the drill, thinking this is some bit of reality. I hear her say, “I’m worth it.” It’s the hard sell. But I’m not sure they realize it’s entertainment, like playing the lottery or going to the movies.
I decide to take in some entertainment. Christine agrees to dance for me. I’ll never listen to the Eagles and Hotel California the same way again.
I sit in the same chair as my last visit. Soon she is gently on me, dragging her soft flesh over my body. She puts her one nipple, then the other, in my mouth. She gently bites my cock through my khakis. She brushes her body from her cunt to her forehead along my face. She nibbles at my ears. She kisses me, gently and briefly, on my lips. And she does it with a real smile on her face, a true sparkle of joy in her eyes. When the music is over, I am, again, overwhelmed.
I am certain her husband is a lucky man. Does he know it? Most men (I include myself in this) don't know a good thing when they have it. We become complacent... I wonder if she gets worked up while at work. Is any of it arousing for her, or is it only work. Does she go home to her husband all hot an bothered, ready for a good roll in the hay? If so, I’d like to be him… ;-)
Wednesday, February 18
The Sexiest Things, Part Two
So, here I am in the hills of eastern Kentucky visiting one of our suppliers. We had a little problem – quality, timeliness… the usual stuff – and the boss sent me here to straighten things out. I was with the supplier – the owner himself – until nearly eight o’clock tonight when we wrapped up, and I started to try and find my way back to the hotel. You know how when it’s dark, things don’t look like they did during the day? Well, that’s how it was. So, I’m driving down this two-bit road, the fields coming all they way up to the shadows cast by the headlights when suddenly on the left is a “gentlemen’s club.”
I know. I know. This is supposed to be a sex blog, not a blog about strip clubs. Well, sorry. You’re going to take what you get. I certainly am.
The car pulled in, the autopilot having engaged at the first recognition of pink neon lights.
The club, Winner’s Circle, had a glass door. I’d never seen that before. It was locked with a little door bell next to it, “Ring to enter.” Sure, I can follow directions.
Inside was the usual: some eight to ten dancers sitting around the bar, smoking; a few male patrons. The bar tender carded me; I was flattered and ordered a Diet Coke.
Now, I share tonight’s experience with you, after a hiatus from posting, not because of anything which I’ve already written here. No, I share tonight’s experience with you because of Christine (and not to be confused with Christina).
Remember a while back I posted about the sexiest things? This was the post that got Jane back blogging, if you’ve been following that. Anyway, I noted in that post that three of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen were a woman driving an eighteen wheeler and two strippers (one in Salt Lake City who wore an oversized, hooded sweatshirt, and Alex, a dancer in Miami who turned me on with a fedora and sensuous hips and a smooth intellect). Well, tonight I met Christine. She’s a dancer. She used to drive an eighteen wheeler (hauling hogs, if you can believe that).
When I stepped up to the bar, she was sitting there, smoking a cigarette. Cute, I thought. Bright brown eyes. Sandy brown/blonde hair, cut Couric-like with bangs. Pretty face. Tan. Big, real breasts. Maybe early thirties. Wearing a black, felt hat; not a fedora, but a brimmed, round hat; oh, if she only knew. But, smoking. Big turn-off for me. The bartender serves up my Diet Coke after forgetting what I ordered, and the dancer makes a comment about the difference in sugar content between Coke and Diet Coke. I make some utterance and then take my coke to a table just back from the runway. I watch the dancers, and tip a dollar a song, folding my bills lengthwise and resting them, tent-like on the edge of the stage.
At nine o’clock the dancers change out and Christine, who had been waiting for the start of her shift, is the first of the night-shift dancers to take to the stage. It was worth the wait.
By this point, I’m the only guy in the place, or so it seems. The place is dead. The Winner’s Circle is empty. She dances just for me, staying nearly in front of me, eyes straight at me, singing to me, her hands rubbing herself. Her breasts are large enough she can pull them toward her mouth, stick her long pink tongue out, and lick the nipples. All the while, she’s maintaining eye contact, wide smile, real.
Later, she joins me at the table and we talk. She has three kids, including a 16-year old daughter. She has the scars to prove motherhood. I think it’s sexy. I think she’s sexy in her all-American, girl-next door way. She tells me guys are always saying they want to take her home, want to marry her. And not just at the Circle, where I would expect she might her that, but at public places like the supermarket and the airport.
And it’s not that she’s drop-dead gorgeous in a model way. But it’s that she uses her deep, dark, brown eyes to draw a man in. I’m talking with her and there’s nothing else in the world. I forget about everything: the problems with the supplier, shit at the plant, Jane and her burgeoning belly and the baby, my sons, Kathleen, strippers the world over including Alex, cute waitresses like Amy, friends like Frankie, and everything else. There’s just Christine and her smile and her eyes.
We talk about stuff, nothing in particular. I ask about one of the earlier dancers, one who seemed real young. This dancer was pretty; dark hair; awkward like she quite want to be on stage showing her shaved lips. While she’d been dancing, one of the other dancers, an older dancer maybe nearly forty, had been playing with her, standing next to the runway, putting her face near her crotch and ass as she danced. There’d been something familiar in their interactions. Christine pointed to the older dancer, “That’s her mother.” Suddenly, I wasn’t too sure with the world; thought back to the scene in Ocean’s Eleven when Brad Pitt’s at the strip club and asks after the dancer-dressed-as-a-nurse’s mother. “Tell her yourself. She’s on in ten minutes.”
Christine convinces me to join her in the “Heartbreak Hotel” for a private dance. All over the Circle there are signs which say “Do not touch the dancers.” They serve alcohol. The dancers are nude. There’s no touching. It’s a combination I’m not so familiar with.
Thirty bucks. Seems awfully high, particularly considering a dance at Lipstick is only a ten spot. I have enough money for one dance; I’d only walked in with sixty bucks, dinner money from Plaid. She smiles. I can smell her perfume, slight, mixed with the scent of cigarettes. Her eyes sparkle in the dull shadows. I’d told her I write; “You can have something to write about. Without a private dance, you haven’t had the whole experience.” How right she was.
We mount the stairs, and Christine leads me to a small, curtained room with a low, overstuffed, leather chair facing a small stage with mirrors on three sides. I sit down and ask, “Are the rules the same here as in the front.” She’s quick to reply, “Yes.”
Whoever writes rules like “Do not touch the dancers” was certainly a street lawyer in another life. It’s one of those things: you can’t do this, but don’t worry, ‘cause this is what really is going to happen. In essence, I needn’t have worried.
Christine strips down to her birthday suit and the music from the boom box starts up. My hands are gripping the leather armrest as she begins to sway; I’m looking at her eyes, sparkling even in the shadows of the room. A couple of measures in and she’s through with the preliminaries and is against me. It’s not just a grinding-of-her-ass against my lap. It’s a full body treatment; her full body against mine. She’s not thick, but not bony; just right for a romp, think I. Her breasts a full, ripe, smooth against my ten o’clock shadow. I’m disappointed when it’s over; disappointed that I don’t have more money. Disappointed that she’s married. Disappointed like all those other guys who have succumbed to her deep stare and believe they were the only one in the world and she was the only one in the world and it wasn’t a game or a fantasy like it really is. I sat dazed in the chair, hard from not only her contact and her scent but her smile and her eyes; I couldn’t move. She laughed at me.
We went back out and talked some more. She was a sport about it, knowing that I was tapped out for the night, but still willing to spend time with me. (Of course, there was no one else in the house, even then, so I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised.) Somehow we started talking about rulers and she noted her hand is seven inches from the top her middle finger to the base of the palm of her hand. She claimed to have measured it. I tried to tell her that I was certain her measurements were off; that looked like ten inches, at least. She laughed. I accused her of measuring men while in the back; she’d rubbed her hand over my hardness; I think she was measuring. She laughed again, a full, throaty, head-thrown-back laugh.
She went up on the stage for another two songs, and I sat admiring the view and thinking I was the only man in the world. And then, when she came back after her dance and having changed (into a damn sexy “head nurse” outfit with a low, low cut dress showing off her ample, tanned breasts). I said good by; she hugged me, and I walked out into the February, blue grass, night air, having seen two sexy images merged into one: a truck-driving stripper.
I know. I know. This is supposed to be a sex blog, not a blog about strip clubs. Well, sorry. You’re going to take what you get. I certainly am.
The car pulled in, the autopilot having engaged at the first recognition of pink neon lights.
The club, Winner’s Circle, had a glass door. I’d never seen that before. It was locked with a little door bell next to it, “Ring to enter.” Sure, I can follow directions.
Inside was the usual: some eight to ten dancers sitting around the bar, smoking; a few male patrons. The bar tender carded me; I was flattered and ordered a Diet Coke.
Now, I share tonight’s experience with you, after a hiatus from posting, not because of anything which I’ve already written here. No, I share tonight’s experience with you because of Christine (and not to be confused with Christina).
Remember a while back I posted about the sexiest things? This was the post that got Jane back blogging, if you’ve been following that. Anyway, I noted in that post that three of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen were a woman driving an eighteen wheeler and two strippers (one in Salt Lake City who wore an oversized, hooded sweatshirt, and Alex, a dancer in Miami who turned me on with a fedora and sensuous hips and a smooth intellect). Well, tonight I met Christine. She’s a dancer. She used to drive an eighteen wheeler (hauling hogs, if you can believe that).
When I stepped up to the bar, she was sitting there, smoking a cigarette. Cute, I thought. Bright brown eyes. Sandy brown/blonde hair, cut Couric-like with bangs. Pretty face. Tan. Big, real breasts. Maybe early thirties. Wearing a black, felt hat; not a fedora, but a brimmed, round hat; oh, if she only knew. But, smoking. Big turn-off for me. The bartender serves up my Diet Coke after forgetting what I ordered, and the dancer makes a comment about the difference in sugar content between Coke and Diet Coke. I make some utterance and then take my coke to a table just back from the runway. I watch the dancers, and tip a dollar a song, folding my bills lengthwise and resting them, tent-like on the edge of the stage.
At nine o’clock the dancers change out and Christine, who had been waiting for the start of her shift, is the first of the night-shift dancers to take to the stage. It was worth the wait.
By this point, I’m the only guy in the place, or so it seems. The place is dead. The Winner’s Circle is empty. She dances just for me, staying nearly in front of me, eyes straight at me, singing to me, her hands rubbing herself. Her breasts are large enough she can pull them toward her mouth, stick her long pink tongue out, and lick the nipples. All the while, she’s maintaining eye contact, wide smile, real.
Later, she joins me at the table and we talk. She has three kids, including a 16-year old daughter. She has the scars to prove motherhood. I think it’s sexy. I think she’s sexy in her all-American, girl-next door way. She tells me guys are always saying they want to take her home, want to marry her. And not just at the Circle, where I would expect she might her that, but at public places like the supermarket and the airport.
And it’s not that she’s drop-dead gorgeous in a model way. But it’s that she uses her deep, dark, brown eyes to draw a man in. I’m talking with her and there’s nothing else in the world. I forget about everything: the problems with the supplier, shit at the plant, Jane and her burgeoning belly and the baby, my sons, Kathleen, strippers the world over including Alex, cute waitresses like Amy, friends like Frankie, and everything else. There’s just Christine and her smile and her eyes.
We talk about stuff, nothing in particular. I ask about one of the earlier dancers, one who seemed real young. This dancer was pretty; dark hair; awkward like she quite want to be on stage showing her shaved lips. While she’d been dancing, one of the other dancers, an older dancer maybe nearly forty, had been playing with her, standing next to the runway, putting her face near her crotch and ass as she danced. There’d been something familiar in their interactions. Christine pointed to the older dancer, “That’s her mother.” Suddenly, I wasn’t too sure with the world; thought back to the scene in Ocean’s Eleven when Brad Pitt’s at the strip club and asks after the dancer-dressed-as-a-nurse’s mother. “Tell her yourself. She’s on in ten minutes.”
Christine convinces me to join her in the “Heartbreak Hotel” for a private dance. All over the Circle there are signs which say “Do not touch the dancers.” They serve alcohol. The dancers are nude. There’s no touching. It’s a combination I’m not so familiar with.
Thirty bucks. Seems awfully high, particularly considering a dance at Lipstick is only a ten spot. I have enough money for one dance; I’d only walked in with sixty bucks, dinner money from Plaid. She smiles. I can smell her perfume, slight, mixed with the scent of cigarettes. Her eyes sparkle in the dull shadows. I’d told her I write; “You can have something to write about. Without a private dance, you haven’t had the whole experience.” How right she was.
We mount the stairs, and Christine leads me to a small, curtained room with a low, overstuffed, leather chair facing a small stage with mirrors on three sides. I sit down and ask, “Are the rules the same here as in the front.” She’s quick to reply, “Yes.”
Whoever writes rules like “Do not touch the dancers” was certainly a street lawyer in another life. It’s one of those things: you can’t do this, but don’t worry, ‘cause this is what really is going to happen. In essence, I needn’t have worried.
Christine strips down to her birthday suit and the music from the boom box starts up. My hands are gripping the leather armrest as she begins to sway; I’m looking at her eyes, sparkling even in the shadows of the room. A couple of measures in and she’s through with the preliminaries and is against me. It’s not just a grinding-of-her-ass against my lap. It’s a full body treatment; her full body against mine. She’s not thick, but not bony; just right for a romp, think I. Her breasts a full, ripe, smooth against my ten o’clock shadow. I’m disappointed when it’s over; disappointed that I don’t have more money. Disappointed that she’s married. Disappointed like all those other guys who have succumbed to her deep stare and believe they were the only one in the world and she was the only one in the world and it wasn’t a game or a fantasy like it really is. I sat dazed in the chair, hard from not only her contact and her scent but her smile and her eyes; I couldn’t move. She laughed at me.
We went back out and talked some more. She was a sport about it, knowing that I was tapped out for the night, but still willing to spend time with me. (Of course, there was no one else in the house, even then, so I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised.) Somehow we started talking about rulers and she noted her hand is seven inches from the top her middle finger to the base of the palm of her hand. She claimed to have measured it. I tried to tell her that I was certain her measurements were off; that looked like ten inches, at least. She laughed. I accused her of measuring men while in the back; she’d rubbed her hand over my hardness; I think she was measuring. She laughed again, a full, throaty, head-thrown-back laugh.
She went up on the stage for another two songs, and I sat admiring the view and thinking I was the only man in the world. And then, when she came back after her dance and having changed (into a damn sexy “head nurse” outfit with a low, low cut dress showing off her ample, tanned breasts). I said good by; she hugged me, and I walked out into the February, blue grass, night air, having seen two sexy images merged into one: a truck-driving stripper.
Thursday, February 12
Fishnet stockings...
I've always had a place in my heart for fishnet stockings...
Or, maybe to hell with fishnets and let's just get to the bikinis...
Or we'll go with the big lacy panties...
Hell, let's face it, I'm game any way at all...
Or, maybe to hell with fishnets and let's just get to the bikinis...
Or we'll go with the big lacy panties...
Hell, let's face it, I'm game any way at all...
Wednesday, February 11
To thong or not to thong
I read somewhere that thongs were becoming passe. The claim is that boyshorts or hipsters are now in vogue. Whatever; so long as I can pull them off with my teeth... ;-)
Susan... makes it hard to concentrate on work...
So, I'm sitting in my little office -- the rumble of the line coming through the paper thin wall, my desk shaking every so often -- trying to make sense of a sheath of papers and little columns of numbers. I'd been on the floor earlier troubleshooting a problem on the line and was now trying to take care of a crisis with production projections... and Susan slides in to have me check some measurement stuff... Sure. She's wearing a short, short skirt which shows off her fine ass; and she's wearing thigh highs which show of her shapely legs. (You might be wondering how I know they're thigh highs. I know this because earlier in the morning she showed me the tops to them; I saw the tops and flesh above. Yes, thigh highs.) So, Susan sits down in the chair across from my desk and I look up from the papers; she's a mighty fine sight after trying to make sense of the numbers. As my eyes travel up from my desk, I'm drawn to her legs... and I swear I can see up her skirt... and I don't want to stare (hell, I do enough of that) but I want to.
I know. I know. Don't mess around at work. Bad voodoo. And I haven't. But, the thought has crossed my mind. Sue has knock-out legs, a fine ass, great tits, a pretty smile, bright eyes. Have I thought about hooking up with her? Sure. But, aside from the fact we've become firm friends, her significant other would knock the shit out of me. Yeh, I can see it. Susan and I are in the conference room after hours, the oak table wet from the sweat and love juice, my head buried between her tan legs, when all of a sudden the door bursts open and Luke storms in, grabs my head, and bashes it to the table. I'd be seeing stars, my face slimed with the musky scent of Sue's wetness. Not a pretty picture.
So, we're in my office and Susan starts to tell me about some hot sex she and Luke had last night, chocolate syrup all over her huge breasts, syrup trailing from the kitchen through the dining room and all over the coach in the family room. Oh, the images in my mind. I cut her off; I couldn't handle the images. I'm sitting behind my desk which is covered in papers and binders and folders and catalogues and reports, and she's in the chair with her knees up and slightly apart and her short skirt riding up...
Yeh, I love my work...
I know. I know. Don't mess around at work. Bad voodoo. And I haven't. But, the thought has crossed my mind. Sue has knock-out legs, a fine ass, great tits, a pretty smile, bright eyes. Have I thought about hooking up with her? Sure. But, aside from the fact we've become firm friends, her significant other would knock the shit out of me. Yeh, I can see it. Susan and I are in the conference room after hours, the oak table wet from the sweat and love juice, my head buried between her tan legs, when all of a sudden the door bursts open and Luke storms in, grabs my head, and bashes it to the table. I'd be seeing stars, my face slimed with the musky scent of Sue's wetness. Not a pretty picture.
So, we're in my office and Susan starts to tell me about some hot sex she and Luke had last night, chocolate syrup all over her huge breasts, syrup trailing from the kitchen through the dining room and all over the coach in the family room. Oh, the images in my mind. I cut her off; I couldn't handle the images. I'm sitting behind my desk which is covered in papers and binders and folders and catalogues and reports, and she's in the chair with her knees up and slightly apart and her short skirt riding up...
Yeh, I love my work...
Texas Saleswoman Faces Trial for Selling Sex Toys
Check this out... So, if I've read this right, in Texas I can sell you a huge dildo and a matching butt plug... but I can't tell you how to use them?
Alex should'a helped the General...
Well, the General has said good-bye to his current bid for the White House.
I just can't help but think that Alex -- wearing her little bustier, dark curls peeking out from under the black fedora, Joe Crocker crooning over the loudspeakers -- couldn't have helped, couldn't have resurrected his campaign, couldn't have brought out the masses... at the very least it would have brought smiles to everyone watching...
I just can't help but think that Alex -- wearing her little bustier, dark curls peeking out from under the black fedora, Joe Crocker crooning over the loudspeakers -- couldn't have helped, couldn't have resurrected his campaign, couldn't have brought out the masses... at the very least it would have brought smiles to everyone watching...
Monday, February 9
We broke the ottoman
I am sad to report we broke the ottoman yesterday.
I'd like to place the blame wholly on Jane. It is true that if it hadn't been for her, the ottoman never would have broken. The same is true for the futon bed which broke last spring. She, however, would like to place the blame solely on me.
Last spring, Jane and I were rollicking on the futon bed in the family room. I think we were going at it with great gusto when suddenly the whole bed lurched. Seems we'd sheared off a weld and a screw & the frame for the mattress settled several inches closer to the floor.
The ottoman was the same story, more or less. Jane was on the glide rocker and I was on the ottoman, scrunched up as close as possible to the chair. We were attempting to insert Tab A into Slot 1 when there was a sudden crack and I felt my ass fall several inches toward the floor and the glide ottoman come to a complete & grinding halt. Seems we'd broken the fiberboard under the cushion.
I want to say it was because Jane's legs were over mine as I was trying to slide into her wet slash.
I think she'll suggest it was 'cause of my fat ass.
So now I need to figure out how to fix the fucking ottoman so it's ready for use when the baby gets here. Oh, right, it's not a fucking ottoman; that's why it broke; we were using it for purposes other than its design. It's an ottoman & it is for feet, not bare asses.
I'd like to place the blame wholly on Jane. It is true that if it hadn't been for her, the ottoman never would have broken. The same is true for the futon bed which broke last spring. She, however, would like to place the blame solely on me.
Last spring, Jane and I were rollicking on the futon bed in the family room. I think we were going at it with great gusto when suddenly the whole bed lurched. Seems we'd sheared off a weld and a screw & the frame for the mattress settled several inches closer to the floor.
The ottoman was the same story, more or less. Jane was on the glide rocker and I was on the ottoman, scrunched up as close as possible to the chair. We were attempting to insert Tab A into Slot 1 when there was a sudden crack and I felt my ass fall several inches toward the floor and the glide ottoman come to a complete & grinding halt. Seems we'd broken the fiberboard under the cushion.
I want to say it was because Jane's legs were over mine as I was trying to slide into her wet slash.
I think she'll suggest it was 'cause of my fat ass.
So now I need to figure out how to fix the fucking ottoman so it's ready for use when the baby gets here. Oh, right, it's not a fucking ottoman; that's why it broke; we were using it for purposes other than its design. It's an ottoman & it is for feet, not bare asses.
Sunday, February 8
You can leave your hat on, Part 2
I bought a CD of Cocker's greatest hits... Jane dragged me to Wal-Mart so she could buy underwear. I purchased nearly $200 worth of shit, including The Best of Joe Cocker with You can keep your hat on as track two.
Jane says I can listen to it all I want, and have my rich little fantasy life thinking about my "friend" Alex... but I can't play the CD in the bedroom...
I'm still having problems with the image of Joe Cocker, Alex, and General Clark all on stage together... ;-)
Jane says I can listen to it all I want, and have my rich little fantasy life thinking about my "friend" Alex... but I can't play the CD in the bedroom...
I'm still having problems with the image of Joe Cocker, Alex, and General Clark all on stage together... ;-)
You can leave your hat on...
Last night I drove up to Richmond to hear General Wes Clark talk. I know; I know; this isn't a political blog (my vanilla blog talks politics). Bear with me, however.
So, I'm hanging out in the hall with the other liberals waiting for the General to show up (now there's a sentence full of contradictions). The crowd's mostly young; a lot of skin for a fine, southern winter day; I'm enjoying myself as the sound system blares music to keep us somewhat entertained. I'm more entertained by the William & Mary students who pen obscure campaign slogans on the back of pre-printed signs.
And then... I hear Joe Cocker and You can leave your hat on. And no longer can I think about General Clark's long distinguished career, or his plan to raise the minimum wage or provide grants to college students or lower taxes for low & middle income Americans, or his thoughts on national security... rather, I can only think of Alex from The Cabaret as she slinked her way through You can leave your hat on for me.
There I am, in the midst of a great hall with red, white, and blue bunting all around & the festitivities of an important candidacy for President by a man who is, truly action and not an act, and all I can think about is beautiful Alex wearing my fedora, her bright eyes alive under the stage lights' glow.
And, now, the only question which remains at large is this: would Alex dance for General Clark? And would the General approve?
In my own little fantasy world, the answer to both questions is yes.
So, I'm hanging out in the hall with the other liberals waiting for the General to show up (now there's a sentence full of contradictions). The crowd's mostly young; a lot of skin for a fine, southern winter day; I'm enjoying myself as the sound system blares music to keep us somewhat entertained. I'm more entertained by the William & Mary students who pen obscure campaign slogans on the back of pre-printed signs.
And then... I hear Joe Cocker and You can leave your hat on. And no longer can I think about General Clark's long distinguished career, or his plan to raise the minimum wage or provide grants to college students or lower taxes for low & middle income Americans, or his thoughts on national security... rather, I can only think of Alex from The Cabaret as she slinked her way through You can leave your hat on for me.
There I am, in the midst of a great hall with red, white, and blue bunting all around & the festitivities of an important candidacy for President by a man who is, truly action and not an act, and all I can think about is beautiful Alex wearing my fedora, her bright eyes alive under the stage lights' glow.
And, now, the only question which remains at large is this: would Alex dance for General Clark? And would the General approve?
In my own little fantasy world, the answer to both questions is yes.
Friday, February 6
Chinese Proverbs
These landed in my inbox from Frankie...
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who run in front of car get tired.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who run behind car get exhausted.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Virginity like bubble, one prick, all gone..
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man with hand in pocket feel cocky all day..
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Foolish man give wife grand piano, wise man give wife upright organ.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man with one chopstick go hungry.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who scratch ass should not bite fingernails.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who eat many prunes get good run for money.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Baseball is wrong: man with four balls cannot walk.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Panties not best thing on earth! but next to best thing on earth.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
War does not determine who is right, war determine who is left.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Wife who put husband in doghouse soon find him in cat house.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who fight with wife all day get no piece at night.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It take many nails to build crib, but one screw to fill it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who drive like hell, bound to get there.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who stand on toilet is high on pot.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who live in glass house should change clothes in basement.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who fish in other man's well often catch crabs.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who fart in church sit in own pew.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crowded elevator smell different to midget..
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who has sex with woman in field get piece on earth
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who run in front of car get tired.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who run behind car get exhausted.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Virginity like bubble, one prick, all gone..
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man with hand in pocket feel cocky all day..
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Foolish man give wife grand piano, wise man give wife upright organ.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man with one chopstick go hungry.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who scratch ass should not bite fingernails.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who eat many prunes get good run for money.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Baseball is wrong: man with four balls cannot walk.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Panties not best thing on earth! but next to best thing on earth.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
War does not determine who is right, war determine who is left.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Wife who put husband in doghouse soon find him in cat house.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who fight with wife all day get no piece at night.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It take many nails to build crib, but one screw to fill it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who drive like hell, bound to get there.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who stand on toilet is high on pot.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who live in glass house should change clothes in basement.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who fish in other man's well often catch crabs.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who fart in church sit in own pew.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crowded elevator smell different to midget..
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Man who has sex with woman in field get piece on earth
Thursday, February 5
The sexiest things...
Today, while driving home from work, I saw one of the sexiest things I've seen in, well, a couple of days: a woman driving a big, honk'n, 18-wheeled, rig. Yup.
I'm not sure where this notion came from. But there I was, stopped at a light near the Plant when I noticed this big rig making a turn. I glanced in the cab, and there was this pretty woman at the wheel. Dark hair. Bright smile. She had her hands on the wheel and was turning it with strength and grace. I know that's an odd combination, but, frankly, I'm at a loss for words. As she made the turn, I could see she was bouncing a bit in the seat, and when she glanced back to make sure she was okay on the turn, her eyes caught mine and she flashed me a huge, wide smile. Damn near got hard sitting in traffic.
And this image got me thinking: what are some of the sexiest things I've ever seen?
Ranking near the very top of the list is a stripper I saw years ago out in Salt Lake City. I know. I know. You're going to say that stripper and Salt Lake City don't go hand in hand. Well, you're partly right. They don't, really. SLC has some of the most stringent rules I've ever seen.
Anyway, one day I stopped by this joint (I think it was Northern Exposure) just as they were opening their doors for the day. I went in and sat down; the place was quiet: no music & the chatter of dancers offstage. Then the lights went down and this dancer came out. I wish I could remember her name; she was nearly the sexiest thing I have ever seen. She was wearing a grey, oversized, hooded sweat shirt and a cowboy hat. When she saw me, she was very surprised; she didn't think anyone was in the house yet. She started to take off her sweatshirt, and I told her to keep it on. She was so damn sexy; straight, light brown hair... crystal blue eyes... perfect smile and teeth... She looked like one of those young, sweet things they feature on CMT videos (the ones I'd watch late at night in the operations center when things are slow and everything is quiet).
Another damn sexy thing I've seen was Alex dancing to the Stray Cats, both times. She was so sexy, dancing in my black, felt fedora and the little, black bustier that accentuated her pale skin and, er, assets. And she could move, fluid like.
I'm not sure what it means when the top three sexy things I can come up with include a truck driver and a two strippers. ((And, yes, I know they're women I could never have; and the list doesn't include Kathleen or Jane or Dee or Frankie or any other woman who is really in my life.))
Anyone care to be the shrink and analyze this?
I'm not sure where this notion came from. But there I was, stopped at a light near the Plant when I noticed this big rig making a turn. I glanced in the cab, and there was this pretty woman at the wheel. Dark hair. Bright smile. She had her hands on the wheel and was turning it with strength and grace. I know that's an odd combination, but, frankly, I'm at a loss for words. As she made the turn, I could see she was bouncing a bit in the seat, and when she glanced back to make sure she was okay on the turn, her eyes caught mine and she flashed me a huge, wide smile. Damn near got hard sitting in traffic.
And this image got me thinking: what are some of the sexiest things I've ever seen?
Ranking near the very top of the list is a stripper I saw years ago out in Salt Lake City. I know. I know. You're going to say that stripper and Salt Lake City don't go hand in hand. Well, you're partly right. They don't, really. SLC has some of the most stringent rules I've ever seen.
Anyway, one day I stopped by this joint (I think it was Northern Exposure) just as they were opening their doors for the day. I went in and sat down; the place was quiet: no music & the chatter of dancers offstage. Then the lights went down and this dancer came out. I wish I could remember her name; she was nearly the sexiest thing I have ever seen. She was wearing a grey, oversized, hooded sweat shirt and a cowboy hat. When she saw me, she was very surprised; she didn't think anyone was in the house yet. She started to take off her sweatshirt, and I told her to keep it on. She was so damn sexy; straight, light brown hair... crystal blue eyes... perfect smile and teeth... She looked like one of those young, sweet things they feature on CMT videos (the ones I'd watch late at night in the operations center when things are slow and everything is quiet).
Another damn sexy thing I've seen was Alex dancing to the Stray Cats, both times. She was so sexy, dancing in my black, felt fedora and the little, black bustier that accentuated her pale skin and, er, assets. And she could move, fluid like.
I'm not sure what it means when the top three sexy things I can come up with include a truck driver and a two strippers. ((And, yes, I know they're women I could never have; and the list doesn't include Kathleen or Jane or Dee or Frankie or any other woman who is really in my life.))
Anyone care to be the shrink and analyze this?
Wednesday, February 4
Writer's Block for the Blog
Ever since I discovered Jane's been reading Sausage Factory, I've had something of writer's block. Gone is the ease with which I can write about my activities and observations. I just can't seem to, well, get it up, so to speak. Whereas before I was writing for myself and a slew of unknown readers, now I know who's reading: Jane, June, Patty, and who-knows-who-else from Simeon. I can't bring myself to write about much of anything. A couple of postings, and several which I've composed only in my head, were written specifically with them in mind as the audience. This has got to stop. I mean, I'd love to write about how I woke up this morning with chest pains, a sore jaw from grinding my teeth, and a raging hard-on. For some reason, I was reminded of an old friend from days gone by. I saw her a couple years ago for a little rendezvous; in the morning as we were playing around, she asked me to get on top of her and fuck her mouth. I'd love to tell you the story, but I just know that 12 hours from now the women of Simeon are going to boot up their computers and surf here to Sausage and just go into a tizzy. I really don't like the image.
Anyone have any suggestions?
Anyone have any suggestions?
Tuesday, February 3
Sometime in April or May...
Come sometime in April or May, I can imagine Jane making some similar utterance about me.
I know, I know: not likely... More likely Jane and her hormone-heavy co-workers will storm my home and drag me off to court to face some stern-faced judge as he siphons off the last of my workingman's pittance to give to Jane while simultaneously telling me that I can never see the little rugrat 'cause I pen a sex blog, which tells him I'm certainly unfit to be anything other than what Jane refers to as "the donor."
I know, I know: not likely... More likely Jane and her hormone-heavy co-workers will storm my home and drag me off to court to face some stern-faced judge as he siphons off the last of my workingman's pittance to give to Jane while simultaneously telling me that I can never see the little rugrat 'cause I pen a sex blog, which tells him I'm certainly unfit to be anything other than what Jane refers to as "the donor."
Another of my favorite reads: Belle de Jour
And here is another of my favorite reads, Belle de Jour. Damn can she write... now, if I could just find my passport and scrape up some cash for a quick trip to London... ;-)
Naughty Little Housewife...
Well, let's see... the Dirty Whore is having fun... and the Naughty Little Housewife is remembering fun... And, I'm going to bed alone...
Yeh, that's my reality... ;-)
Yeh, that's my reality... ;-)
Monday, February 2
Dirty Whore
That Dirty Whore has all the fun... Okay, I'm having fun, too... ;-)
Tonight I ran into Dee in the parking lot after the Mid State Crisis Team's monthly meeting. We hung out talking a bit, standing close to each other to conserve warmth in the 40 degree, winter air. I was leaning up against my shitty, little car, and she was standing between my legs, and the next thing I knew we were kissing, her lips hungry against mine.
I'll be at morning Mass tomorrow to seek forgiveness...
Tonight I ran into Dee in the parking lot after the Mid State Crisis Team's monthly meeting. We hung out talking a bit, standing close to each other to conserve warmth in the 40 degree, winter air. I was leaning up against my shitty, little car, and she was standing between my legs, and the next thing I knew we were kissing, her lips hungry against mine.
I'll be at morning Mass tomorrow to seek forgiveness...
Jane has discovered my blog...
I had a suspicion that Jane was reading my blog. If you've read the archives, you know Jane found the blog at a different URL. I've moved it twice. Now that I'm here, I seem to have a few loyal readers and more than 2000 folks have wandered by at least once. I have an audience for my prose... and it turns out that audience includes Jane (see the reader comments on this posting) and a few of her co-workers...
Last night, a bit after 11pm, my phone rings. It's Jane. "What you doing?" she asks.
"Er, making the bed," I reply.
"Good," she says. "You can have clean sheets WHEN YOU FUCK FRANKIE." And then she hangs up the phone.
I guess I know now she's reading the blog. Yes, it seems that for months, Jane and her co-workers have been reading the blog over their morning coffee. I guess this is better than the local paper.
((A note about her co-workers... one of them, June, is a ripe young thing. I'd like to take her over my knee and spank her but good. I think she'd like that... Tell me, June, would you? Does it turn you on to read of Jane's antics and her sex life? Would you like to join us, perhaps?))
So, anyway, Jane is no longer a closet reader to the Northern European Sausage Factory...
And, Jane, you should know, the glider is just damn perfect. Thanks for asking me to buy it... ;-)
Last night, a bit after 11pm, my phone rings. It's Jane. "What you doing?" she asks.
"Er, making the bed," I reply.
"Good," she says. "You can have clean sheets WHEN YOU FUCK FRANKIE." And then she hangs up the phone.
I guess I know now she's reading the blog. Yes, it seems that for months, Jane and her co-workers have been reading the blog over their morning coffee. I guess this is better than the local paper.
((A note about her co-workers... one of them, June, is a ripe young thing. I'd like to take her over my knee and spank her but good. I think she'd like that... Tell me, June, would you? Does it turn you on to read of Jane's antics and her sex life? Would you like to join us, perhaps?))
So, anyway, Jane is no longer a closet reader to the Northern European Sausage Factory...
And, Jane, you should know, the glider is just damn perfect. Thanks for asking me to buy it... ;-)
Sunday, February 1
Breaking in New Furniture
Frankie came over today to help break in some new furniture. Well, that wasn’t the plan, but that’s what happened.
Last night while at Wal-Mart, Jane convinced me to buy a glide-rocker and ottoman. We wrestled it into my little, shitty car and brought it to my house. Today, right before she left in the early afternoon, Jane helped me bring it inside. I proceeded to put the puppy together, spending the better part of 45 minutes reading directions written by a non-English speaking Chinese engineer, deciphering Tab A from Slot 1 and long screws from short screws. I’d tightened the last screw when I heard a knock at my door. When I opened the door, Frankie was standing on the porch in a “come hither” pose, her black wool overcoat open to show a little short skirt and tight blouse. After rolling up my tongue, I invited her in.
We chatted for a bit, sitting on the coach, and then she leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “I think you still owe me for the other night on the plane.” Yes, I did. We kissed for a bit, groping and pawing at each other, my hands running the length of her bare legs up to her wet crotch (no panties). I commented on how smooth her legs were; “Coffee grounds,” she said.
“Damn,” thought I. “Two in a week. Must be something about this.”
During a breather, she mentioned she liked my furniture; she hadn’t been to my house in a couple of years. When I moved in, I didn’t have some of the pieces I have now, including a huge carved French cupboard… and the glide rocker.
She got up and went to the rocker, sitting demurely in the plush comfort. She gave me a another one of those come hither looks. I fall so easily. Well, that and I like to break in new furniture. Frankie looked like she was game.
Pretty soon, I was kneeling on the floor in front of the chair, my head buried between her thighs. She came gripping my head tightly. I got up, slid the ottoman close, dropped my pants, and sat down. I was perfectly aligned. We discovered that with the glide motion, we could insert Tab A into Slot 1 just perfectly.
Thank goodness for those directions…
Last night while at Wal-Mart, Jane convinced me to buy a glide-rocker and ottoman. We wrestled it into my little, shitty car and brought it to my house. Today, right before she left in the early afternoon, Jane helped me bring it inside. I proceeded to put the puppy together, spending the better part of 45 minutes reading directions written by a non-English speaking Chinese engineer, deciphering Tab A from Slot 1 and long screws from short screws. I’d tightened the last screw when I heard a knock at my door. When I opened the door, Frankie was standing on the porch in a “come hither” pose, her black wool overcoat open to show a little short skirt and tight blouse. After rolling up my tongue, I invited her in.
We chatted for a bit, sitting on the coach, and then she leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “I think you still owe me for the other night on the plane.” Yes, I did. We kissed for a bit, groping and pawing at each other, my hands running the length of her bare legs up to her wet crotch (no panties). I commented on how smooth her legs were; “Coffee grounds,” she said.
“Damn,” thought I. “Two in a week. Must be something about this.”
During a breather, she mentioned she liked my furniture; she hadn’t been to my house in a couple of years. When I moved in, I didn’t have some of the pieces I have now, including a huge carved French cupboard… and the glide rocker.
She got up and went to the rocker, sitting demurely in the plush comfort. She gave me a another one of those come hither looks. I fall so easily. Well, that and I like to break in new furniture. Frankie looked like she was game.
Pretty soon, I was kneeling on the floor in front of the chair, my head buried between her thighs. She came gripping my head tightly. I got up, slid the ottoman close, dropped my pants, and sat down. I was perfectly aligned. We discovered that with the glide motion, we could insert Tab A into Slot 1 just perfectly.
Thank goodness for those directions…
