I arrived home late this evening, just in time to take Drew to a doctor's appointment. Dinner found us all at the table, supping on an excellent roast chicken Jane had prepared. I think she wanted to spoil us because she's laying down the law: she's spent huge amounts of time getting the house in order and she doesn't want it screwed with. I do have to admit: the house has never looked better. Anyway, she laid down the law: chores, chores, chores.
But, it was okay; the boys might have felt lectured to; I figured either I deserve it or we'll all fall back on our usual habits soon enough.
And then, nigh on midnight, it appears we have fallen back on our usual habits. All was well until I fired up the computer to check my mail. Jane asked if I'd blogged while I was gone. Yup.
And then she wanted to know if it was on the vanilla blog or ncblog. NCblog, I said.
"What'd you right about?" she asked.
"Girls," I replied flippantly. Likely, this was a bad answer on my part.
"You go to a strip club?" she asked with accusation in her voice.
It was all down hill from there. First, she wanted to read the blog, and then she didn't. Said I'd taken too long getting off the computer. She was in bed, harrumphed. I could see the dark cloud from across the room. So I decided to read to her. I started in with Too quiet: Sorry folks, and when I got to the strip club part she told me to shut up. "I never read about the strip clubs," she said.
So I'm thinking she doesn't read all that much? And, I'm also thinking she's missing some of my best prose and great insight into my psyche. If she wants to know what I'm really thinking, what is really important, there are clues in those experiences and those words. And it's not clues about sex or boobs; it's clues about what's important. Sex is merely a medium; it's the being that's important.
And, sadly, she's missing that.
And now, she's in bed, her back turned me; she's pissed. Pissed for reasons that I can imagine, but she will not really tell me.
And I so wanted to connect. I was, truly, looking forward to being home for three days & spending time with her.
What I get is the cold shoulder, the silent treatment, the dark clouds.
Not anything near what I want.
Thursday, March 31
Wednesday, March 30
Another night: Great burgers
So the day was okay. Took the train into the City and survived. Dinner tonight at Dauphines Steak House. No steak for me -- just a burger and fries.
Been thinking about the existential bent of last night's posting. I'm finding I have incomplete thoughts of late. My vanilla blog has a huge hole in it recently when I tried to link the Secretary of State's current Mid-East trip to a failed foreign policy and a new strategy for US intervention. Heady stuff, eh? And then, here, attempting to link strip clubs to 50 First Dates and existentialism -- and, again, not being all that successful in drawing the linkage.
So, I'm here, now, waiting for my burger. Already Debra has come up to say hello. "Mr. Sausage Factory," she purred. Ooh, la, la. Nice to be known. And Corey stopped by and we chatted briefly about an upcoming rally in southern Virginia. The Nazis and the Klu Klux Klan have evidently joined forces and want to march at some National Park. Last week I clicked the Next Blog button in the upper right of some Blogspot blog and I ended up at some blog about it (and, now, I've lost it). Seems there's some folks planning a love-in to counter the hate of the white supremists. Cool, and I've been talking it up. Somehow Corey and I got on the topic last night. Seems she has an interest 'cause she's in a committed inter-racial relationship (okay, the plain way to say that is her boyfriend is black; like I care). (Sidebar: Like I care about her boyfriend's race. I guess it was important because we were talking about the love-fest, so there was a link. But for some people, it's like they just have to tell you. Like some people who are gay: they feel they have to announce it. Whatever. Be yourself. Perhaps that's my existentialist response. Be yourself and I really don't need to know about it.)
While I'm thinking about it: I highly recommend the burger at Dauphines. Charcoal flavored and cooked to perfection on a NY style potato roll. Best burger I've had in years -- and that's not because it comes with a side of young titties, but 'cause it tastes good.
Good food -- and Anna, the waitress -- tempted me with a triple fudge chocolate cake that, while not to die for, is worth at least passing out for.
Nice. Very nice place. Everyone is so friendly. Arianna, wearing a hot orange flourescent, skin-tight dress stops by. I'm struck by her real smile and the sparkle of her eyes; even in this dim light, her eyes glitter. Full of life.
And the chocolate cake has got to have a million carbs, after just one bite attacking my already expanding belly.
Question: Is it okay to leave cake on the plate? Do I have to finish it?
A related question: Is it okay to leave a strip club with cash in my pocket? Do I have to tap out. (Years ago, I would never exit a strip club with cash: it was my duty to leave it with the lasses. Thank goodness -- at least for me -- I'm not there anymore.)
Corey is back up on the stage; she dances with a dancer's grace. Half-a-dozen dancers and each has a distinct personality and style. She's fluid and hip-y and sexy and water-like. Damn.
So, I'm here. And I choose to be here. And, yet, I desire a connection. And I look forward to geting home and being with Jane and Miller: connected.
Been thinking about the existential bent of last night's posting. I'm finding I have incomplete thoughts of late. My vanilla blog has a huge hole in it recently when I tried to link the Secretary of State's current Mid-East trip to a failed foreign policy and a new strategy for US intervention. Heady stuff, eh? And then, here, attempting to link strip clubs to 50 First Dates and existentialism -- and, again, not being all that successful in drawing the linkage.
So, I'm here, now, waiting for my burger. Already Debra has come up to say hello. "Mr. Sausage Factory," she purred. Ooh, la, la. Nice to be known. And Corey stopped by and we chatted briefly about an upcoming rally in southern Virginia. The Nazis and the Klu Klux Klan have evidently joined forces and want to march at some National Park. Last week I clicked the Next Blog button in the upper right of some Blogspot blog and I ended up at some blog about it (and, now, I've lost it). Seems there's some folks planning a love-in to counter the hate of the white supremists. Cool, and I've been talking it up. Somehow Corey and I got on the topic last night. Seems she has an interest 'cause she's in a committed inter-racial relationship (okay, the plain way to say that is her boyfriend is black; like I care). (Sidebar: Like I care about her boyfriend's race. I guess it was important because we were talking about the love-fest, so there was a link. But for some people, it's like they just have to tell you. Like some people who are gay: they feel they have to announce it. Whatever. Be yourself. Perhaps that's my existentialist response. Be yourself and I really don't need to know about it.)
While I'm thinking about it: I highly recommend the burger at Dauphines. Charcoal flavored and cooked to perfection on a NY style potato roll. Best burger I've had in years -- and that's not because it comes with a side of young titties, but 'cause it tastes good.
Good food -- and Anna, the waitress -- tempted me with a triple fudge chocolate cake that, while not to die for, is worth at least passing out for.
Nice. Very nice place. Everyone is so friendly. Arianna, wearing a hot orange flourescent, skin-tight dress stops by. I'm struck by her real smile and the sparkle of her eyes; even in this dim light, her eyes glitter. Full of life.
And the chocolate cake has got to have a million carbs, after just one bite attacking my already expanding belly.
Question: Is it okay to leave cake on the plate? Do I have to finish it?
A related question: Is it okay to leave a strip club with cash in my pocket? Do I have to tap out. (Years ago, I would never exit a strip club with cash: it was my duty to leave it with the lasses. Thank goodness -- at least for me -- I'm not there anymore.)
Corey is back up on the stage; she dances with a dancer's grace. Half-a-dozen dancers and each has a distinct personality and style. She's fluid and hip-y and sexy and water-like. Damn.
So, I'm here. And I choose to be here. And, yet, I desire a connection. And I look forward to geting home and being with Jane and Miller: connected.
Too quiet: sorry, folks
Ok. The Sausage Maker's been quiet. I'd blame it on much -- suffice it to say I've been busy -- and not much of my busy-ness has been appropriate to the Sausage Factory.
I'm on the road again. I traveled a shitload in January and February and early March, and then I had a couple of weeks at home, putting time in at the plant. Recuperating.
My road trips earlier this year were ok, but not my usual. Jane joined me for a week in New Orleans and later for some time in Baltimore. I enjoy our time together -- but it throws my travel rhythm off: no strip clubs and no after hours work for work or grad school. All the travel and all the Jane, and I find myself weeks behind in nearly all my work.
So, now I'm in DC for a quick trip. Made the drive up today; I hate driving. Pulled in to the hotel, and my ass was sore from sitting.
Not so sore as Jane's ass, I imagine. Jane decided I needed a proper send-off this morning. While Miller (the little bugger is getting frigg'n huge -- like a solid, human, string bean) racked out on our bed, a bottle in his mouth, Jane and I did the deed in the family room. I opted for the family room since if we're anywhere near Miller, he wakes up.
So, we scrambled down to the family room and started making out. I'd brought the toys Jane has purchased over the last couple of weeks: a purple monster dildo with two teasers, one vibrates the clit and the other slips right in the ass, and a second, red, silicone dildo with a little bend to it. (Jane says it reminds her of Will, her perfect, former lover.) So, we were on the couch making out and I had her hair in my hand (she likes it a little rough and directed); she squatted over me and slit my hardness into her wetness. I had other ideas; what good are toys if you can't play with them, after all? I moved her off me and slid off the couch; ever the quick study, Jane got on her hands and knees and buried her head in the cushion, and I got the purple monster out and worked it into her, sloppy sounds filling the room along with the musky scent of her sex. Thinking this was fun, I wondered what I could do with the red toy, newly unwrapped. I decided to slip it into her ass.
Bad idea. First off, it doesn't slip all that easily being five or six inches in circumference. She freaked out. Needless to say, I stopped; but I do have a things for asses. We ended with me fucking her from behind, my thumb buried in her wet ass.
Afterward, spent on the floor, Jane begged me to focus on the clit and to leave her ass alone. "I know how much you like it, but leave it alone, will you?"
So, a good ten hours later, I stepped out of the car and my ass hurt from the ride, and I suspected Jane's still hurt from her ride, too.
A proper send-off, however. And, for me, a better one than what I would have had with Jane coming in at 2AM from Osaka's last night and us playing with the purple monster and Miller waking up -- wide awake -- as Jane loudly came. He decided it was time to play, so I couldn't.
I came out of the hotel this evening looking for sustenance and, somehow, found myself in a strip club (1320 Club II, in the Virginia suburbs). And, yes, my how things are back to normal: women taking their clothes off and me blogging in the dark. This is the land of pasties and G-strings and runway dancing only, but the dancers are pretty and personable. Ashley, a 20-year-old college student chatted with me for a good forty minutes before going onstage, her athletic legs belying a strength and grace: very sensual. Serendipity, as I was writing about this afternoon's activities (and Jane's ass), Ashley presented herself at the near end of the runway, a come hither look over her shoulder bringing a rise to my pants. I'd say it doesn't take much, but that would be wrong as I've become jaded, as any reader who's stuck with me can attest. Aside from the no-contact, which Jane would approve of, the club actually fits me well. The dancers are young and friendly and pretty and natural. Ashley is studying business, having given up fine arts, and Corey -- who reminded me of Alex -- is writing a screenplay for a major motion picture studio.
Yes, Corey reminded me of Alex. (Note to Jane: Sorry. But it is what it is.) I mentioned to Corey that she danced sensuously, and she said it was years of ballet. I immediately thought of Alex's "don't sit too close at the ballet" and then realized they had similar features: dark, soft-curled hair, a dignified but earthy air about her, cultured and bright and articulate.
Now, Jane would suggest (and has suggested) it's a front: they read me when I walk in the door and play to what I would want. Okay, to a slight advantage, perhaps, but I like to think they're just being real around me. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.
But, at least I'm wise enough (read old enough) to realize that while we're all real people, we walk through the doors, enter the loud and dark space -- this one reminiscent of a cave with mirrors -- and we enter a fantasy world, a place where I can watch Debra, a blond who reminds me of a younger Sara Jessica Parker but without the nose, dancing in a skimpy red thing on stage, and I can think she's dancing just for me. It's just a fantasy life paid for with portraits of George Washington in green ink. (Note to self: Nine inch heels make a girl taller and accentuate her legs; and that strip of red cloth which passes for a skirt in here wouldn't be legal outside.)
I'm struck by the choreography, not just on the runway, but the regular and defined movement throughout the club. It is the existence.
Last night, after Miller woke up and then fell back into a deep slumber, I laid awake, unable to fall asleep myself, thinking about 50 First Dates. I know: stupid.
Jane and I watched the movie, sitting on the couch that found us getting sloppy on this morning. Anyway, I was there, awake, Jane's breathing even in the night air, Miller snoring little toddler snores, and birds chirping outside the window, the night sky flooding the bedroom.
And I thought about Lucy and Harry, and how she had to take every day on faith, living each day for each day's sake alone. An existential existence, if ever there was one. Each morning she awakes to find an existence only remotely connected with what she remembers. And those who love her accept for what she is: a sister, a friend, a daughter, a wife, a mother. No strings attached.
Like at the club and other places like it: Corey grinding on stage and Ashley shaking her stuff in dress fit for bring home to mama and Juliet, my on-the-ball waitress, who remembers my name at every pass by the table. I am just one person attempting to connect, to make a real connection with another person.
Later, I'm at the rail, and Corey dances close, the clock on the wall nudging to closing time, her purple kimono covering her pale body, fluid and waterlike, hips swaying, lean dancer's legs, hips sliding side to side, all beneath the silky fabric, all covered. I sit with the knowledge of what hides beneath.
So, here we are, each unique, each alone, each making it through the world in our own way. Each of us connected, when we choose to be, with those around us. Each of us waking up and greeting the new day with wonder and surprise.
I'm on the road again. I traveled a shitload in January and February and early March, and then I had a couple of weeks at home, putting time in at the plant. Recuperating.
My road trips earlier this year were ok, but not my usual. Jane joined me for a week in New Orleans and later for some time in Baltimore. I enjoy our time together -- but it throws my travel rhythm off: no strip clubs and no after hours work for work or grad school. All the travel and all the Jane, and I find myself weeks behind in nearly all my work.
So, now I'm in DC for a quick trip. Made the drive up today; I hate driving. Pulled in to the hotel, and my ass was sore from sitting.
Not so sore as Jane's ass, I imagine. Jane decided I needed a proper send-off this morning. While Miller (the little bugger is getting frigg'n huge -- like a solid, human, string bean) racked out on our bed, a bottle in his mouth, Jane and I did the deed in the family room. I opted for the family room since if we're anywhere near Miller, he wakes up.
So, we scrambled down to the family room and started making out. I'd brought the toys Jane has purchased over the last couple of weeks: a purple monster dildo with two teasers, one vibrates the clit and the other slips right in the ass, and a second, red, silicone dildo with a little bend to it. (Jane says it reminds her of Will, her perfect, former lover.) So, we were on the couch making out and I had her hair in my hand (she likes it a little rough and directed); she squatted over me and slit my hardness into her wetness. I had other ideas; what good are toys if you can't play with them, after all? I moved her off me and slid off the couch; ever the quick study, Jane got on her hands and knees and buried her head in the cushion, and I got the purple monster out and worked it into her, sloppy sounds filling the room along with the musky scent of her sex. Thinking this was fun, I wondered what I could do with the red toy, newly unwrapped. I decided to slip it into her ass.
Bad idea. First off, it doesn't slip all that easily being five or six inches in circumference. She freaked out. Needless to say, I stopped; but I do have a things for asses. We ended with me fucking her from behind, my thumb buried in her wet ass.
Afterward, spent on the floor, Jane begged me to focus on the clit and to leave her ass alone. "I know how much you like it, but leave it alone, will you?"
So, a good ten hours later, I stepped out of the car and my ass hurt from the ride, and I suspected Jane's still hurt from her ride, too.
A proper send-off, however. And, for me, a better one than what I would have had with Jane coming in at 2AM from Osaka's last night and us playing with the purple monster and Miller waking up -- wide awake -- as Jane loudly came. He decided it was time to play, so I couldn't.
I came out of the hotel this evening looking for sustenance and, somehow, found myself in a strip club (1320 Club II, in the Virginia suburbs). And, yes, my how things are back to normal: women taking their clothes off and me blogging in the dark. This is the land of pasties and G-strings and runway dancing only, but the dancers are pretty and personable. Ashley, a 20-year-old college student chatted with me for a good forty minutes before going onstage, her athletic legs belying a strength and grace: very sensual. Serendipity, as I was writing about this afternoon's activities (and Jane's ass), Ashley presented herself at the near end of the runway, a come hither look over her shoulder bringing a rise to my pants. I'd say it doesn't take much, but that would be wrong as I've become jaded, as any reader who's stuck with me can attest. Aside from the no-contact, which Jane would approve of, the club actually fits me well. The dancers are young and friendly and pretty and natural. Ashley is studying business, having given up fine arts, and Corey -- who reminded me of Alex -- is writing a screenplay for a major motion picture studio.
Yes, Corey reminded me of Alex. (Note to Jane: Sorry. But it is what it is.) I mentioned to Corey that she danced sensuously, and she said it was years of ballet. I immediately thought of Alex's "don't sit too close at the ballet" and then realized they had similar features: dark, soft-curled hair, a dignified but earthy air about her, cultured and bright and articulate.
Now, Jane would suggest (and has suggested) it's a front: they read me when I walk in the door and play to what I would want. Okay, to a slight advantage, perhaps, but I like to think they're just being real around me. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.
But, at least I'm wise enough (read old enough) to realize that while we're all real people, we walk through the doors, enter the loud and dark space -- this one reminiscent of a cave with mirrors -- and we enter a fantasy world, a place where I can watch Debra, a blond who reminds me of a younger Sara Jessica Parker but without the nose, dancing in a skimpy red thing on stage, and I can think she's dancing just for me. It's just a fantasy life paid for with portraits of George Washington in green ink. (Note to self: Nine inch heels make a girl taller and accentuate her legs; and that strip of red cloth which passes for a skirt in here wouldn't be legal outside.)
I'm struck by the choreography, not just on the runway, but the regular and defined movement throughout the club. It is the existence.
Last night, after Miller woke up and then fell back into a deep slumber, I laid awake, unable to fall asleep myself, thinking about 50 First Dates. I know: stupid.
Jane and I watched the movie, sitting on the couch that found us getting sloppy on this morning. Anyway, I was there, awake, Jane's breathing even in the night air, Miller snoring little toddler snores, and birds chirping outside the window, the night sky flooding the bedroom.
And I thought about Lucy and Harry, and how she had to take every day on faith, living each day for each day's sake alone. An existential existence, if ever there was one. Each morning she awakes to find an existence only remotely connected with what she remembers. And those who love her accept for what she is: a sister, a friend, a daughter, a wife, a mother. No strings attached.
Like at the club and other places like it: Corey grinding on stage and Ashley shaking her stuff in dress fit for bring home to mama and Juliet, my on-the-ball waitress, who remembers my name at every pass by the table. I am just one person attempting to connect, to make a real connection with another person.
Later, I'm at the rail, and Corey dances close, the clock on the wall nudging to closing time, her purple kimono covering her pale body, fluid and waterlike, hips swaying, lean dancer's legs, hips sliding side to side, all beneath the silky fabric, all covered. I sit with the knowledge of what hides beneath.
So, here we are, each unique, each alone, each making it through the world in our own way. Each of us connected, when we choose to be, with those around us. Each of us waking up and greeting the new day with wonder and surprise.
