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Jane's killing her blog

Well, gentle readers, Jane told me yesterday she's started another blog and is thinking of killing off Jane Says. She will not give me the URL for the new blog; guess she doesn't want me nosing around. Perhaps she's writing about her boy friend.

I think my sex drive has waned, totally. Several times yesterday and last night Jane asked if I wanted to do it. The last time was at three in the morning as I was attempting to get back to sleep after waking up to check on Ralph (doc's orders... makes for some long nights). I just wanted to sleep; my body craved sleep. I'm not sure I could have done more than just lie there, but I wasn't even up for that. I'm not sure I even said anything. When I woke up at 6am to start the day, Jane was gone. I found her on the couch in the living room; she said it was too hot up in the bedroom.

I'm thinking our relationship is well past the newness stage.

Quiet in the Winky house

Yesterday, Jane called me at work and asked if I wanted to come home for a quickie. Jane's sister, Lilly, had taken him to the park. I could hear the factory floor rumbling & there was a stack of stuff on my desk to deal with.

I didn't run home.

I got home a couple of minutes before 5pm. Jane and I were relaxing in the living room; the house was cool and quiet. Jane asked if I wanted to go upstairs for a quickie. I was antsy to pick up my elder sons.

I didn't go upstairs.

Last night, we were settling in for the evening, two of my National Guard buddies gone from a little impromptu dinner party we had, Lilly hanging out on the second floor waiting for her latest squeeze to call, and Drew & Ralph tucked in bed. Miller, however, was dancing on our bed, his thighs and half his face red from the sun where Lilly missed covering him up while at the park. Jane wrapped her arms around me and stuck her tongue in my mouth.

I didn't fall to the bed.

Jane says, "Three strikes!" and I'm out. She claims I'll never get any again. That's it. I'm finished. I told her I was finished the day we married.

That didn't go over too well.

I've decided I need a vacation

I've decided I need a vacation. A little something different. Like here. Now that, that's a place for a vacation. Had I any hair, I could let it down there.

My only question is this. Who would need this service?

If you can not pack at home we will provide you with everything you need including bath robes for two, T shirt, shorts, razor, shaving cream and condoms in any size and quantity.

Who can't pack at home? Oh, right, I can't pack at home.

"Hey, Jane, I'm gonna run out to the mall for a bit. See you in a week."

Tagged: A life with books.

Well, I guess it's nice to know I have at least two regular readers: Jane and Magdala.

Magdala has decided I need to think about books; she's tagged me.

1) Total number of books I've owned.
Who knows. I think I have perhaps five hundred books in the house right now. When I divorced, I got rid of a slew of books, perhaps five or six hundred... I grew up in a house with books and books and books.

2) The last book I bought.
Books for class. Thrillers, each and every one.

• Resolving Identity-Based Conflict In Nations, Organizations, and Communities


• Working Ethics: Strategies for Decision Making and Organizational Responsibility


• The New Leaders : Leadership Diversity in America


• Preventing Workplace Violence : A Guide for Employers and Practitioners


• Violence in the Workplace: A Prevention and Management Guide for Businesses


• The 17 Essential Qualities Of A Team Player Becoming The Kind Of Person Every Team Wants


• Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence

3) The Last Book I read.
Recently for fun I've been reading "alternate histories" -- you know, what would the world be like if the Confederate States had won the Civil War... Most recent book was from Harry Turtledove's American Empire series.

4) 5 books that mean a lot to you...
Hmmm... how the hell should I know? They all mean something to me. That's why there are stacks and stacks and stacks of them around the house... Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles was one of the most impactful novels I read in college. I'm into Philip Larkin's High Windows and Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. A couple months ago I read Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife. There, that's four.

5) Tag 5 people and request they fill this out on their blogs.
Well, I'd tag Jane, but Magdala already tagged her... How about Kenny Garcia, Dinky Dog, and my Boston friend (no blog there... guess I'll just have to read it in your private journal). That's all for now.

It's getting crowded here

Well, it is, indeed, getting crowded here at the Northern European Sausage Factory. I'm back out on the road, about to close a deal for some new software & machinery for our production line. I am very excited about this as it means I'll be home for a while. But this, this is not what's getting crowded.

What's getting crowded is that the real world and this blog world are colliding. As evidenced by Kenny's comment to the below post. I didn't realize that when I provided him a single sex-blog link that he'd hone in on the Sausage Factory at all, much less that quickly. Have I been outed?

Loyal readers may remember this blog used to be elsewhere until Jane discovered it. I moved the blog several times and then just gave up; I figured if she wanted to read it, she could. Of course, every time she reads it and I write anything at all about another woman, she gets all pissy and jealous. Strip club posts are the worst, although my recent offer to dinkydog didn't go over all that well either.

My long-time Boston-friend found the blog, but she's nonjudgemental (and always has been) so that's not a big deal.

But now. Now things are getting complicated.

Just who the hell is reading this blog?

Do I keep it freaky? Do I pack it in? Do I focus on the vanilla blog (yes, yes, there is a vanilla blog... )

So, it's getting crowded in here. Metophorically, of course. Reality, well, the reality is that the freaky side of me isn't getting crowded at all. For Mother's Day, I took Jane to the Marriott over in Crabtree for the night. It was a surprise. Jane's sister, Kay, watched Miller, and we went out for the night, our overnight back stuffed with sex toys, including the purple monster. We had dinner at the hotel restaurant, hung out in the whirlpool for a bit, and scrumped like rabbits.

The whirlpool was funny. We were in the pool area alone and it was getting late. With the bubbles blowing, we couldn't see beneath the water. I slipped my trunks off and let the bubbles blow against my schlong; it felt good. Jane got in front of me, and just as we were about to get freaky, a young woman and four little kids race into the room. I can only imagine what the look on my face said as I struggled to get my swim trunks pulled up to cover my johnson that I feared would be exposed as everyone headed into the hot tub.

We had a great night, alone together with no baby to interrupt or phone to ring or whatever, and we left in a great mood as I headed over to Plaid to get ready for this week's trip.

I ruined Jane's good mood that night, but I'm sure she'll post all about it.

Going out for dinner: A trip to HipHuggers

After a bit of a nap following my last meeting of the day, I hooked up with Kenny and we went out to find some dinner. We ended up at Hip Huggers somewhere here in the southend of the Bay. We drove past, the neon Go Go sign lighting up the busy street. The car just pulled in to the parking lot like it needed to take a break.

Not wanting to pass up an opportunity, we walked past The Black Hole joking it was a different kind of club, and walked into Hip Huggers. The first thing I noticed is that all the women were clothed. Fully. The dancers were all wearing tops and bottoms: a bikini club.

Some places are nude. Some places are topless. Some places are either topless or bottomless. Some places are pasties. And, now apparently, some places are bikini.

Two raised stages, each surrounded by a floor level walkway then a bar. All the dancers are either on the stage, in the walkway, or on the bar. There's no hanging out on seats like in most places. They can hang out, but they hang out on the bar. No lap dances. No touching.

Kenny and I order from the waiter, a buff, short guy in a black polo shirt that says STAFF emblazoned across his back. I'm thinking the waiters double as bouncers. I order a Diet Coke and Kenny orders a draft beer.

The dancers are pretty, generally thin, and, yes, fully clothed. I see more skin at the beach at OBX than I'm gonna see in here.

I toss a five dollar bill on the counter in front of Kenny and tell him he needs "special attention." He moves the bill to in front of me, and we trade words. The dancer, Rain, has sandy blonde hair down to her ass; she's tall, wearing a red bikini thong and a small black top. She's on the stage, feet toward us and spread wide, and she slaps her crotch. Hard. She smiles, and pulls the bottom tight, accentuating what's hidden behind the slick fabric.

There are eight girls dancing; some are on the bar rail, some on stage; one girl gives the four-poled cage workout.

Rain ends up in the corner, on the bar, stretched out; she's still and leaning into the guy sitting on the outside of the rail. His head is cradled between her clothe covered breasts, and her hair is covering him from view.

Molly starts to dance. She, too, is tall. She has dark hair that falls to her shapely shoulder blades. A bright piece of jewelry tangles from her belly button, accentuating toned muscles. My ever-present pad is with me, my pen making chicken scratches in the dim red light as Kenny and I trade comments about the just-completed expo and we watch the dancers gyrate. Molly asks what I'm doing, and Kenny tells her I'm a writer. She rolls her eyes, the stage lights catching them just so. I tell her I'm going to write about her, and she laughs and hides behind the gold pole in the center of the stage. Her face is thin and demonstrative; her smile is wide and white; the wedding band on her finger catches the light.

She doesn't match her stage name. For me, Molly is submissive. When I think of Molly, I think of a submissive, naive girl. She's not. The music has a hard beat and her body grinds to it. She is shapely with full-sized breasts; I wonder if they are augmented. If so, a good job; if not, perfection made by nature.

Rain finishes her "dance" in the corner and passes by along the walkway between the rail and the stage. She smiles and says "hi." I tell her my friend needs special attention and slip a bill into her hand. She stops, puts down the stuff she has in her hands, and leans in to Kenny. He disappears beneath her golden-brown locks. In a few minutes, I'll learn that the joining includes her moaning gently, hot breath, and the scent of peppermint. She gets up on the bar and spreads her legs, slapping her crotch pulling the bikini bottoms tight. Her pussy lips are full; there's a wetness in the fabric, and I swear I can see the outline of her clit straining against the cloth. Perhaps this is wishful imagination. She looks into my eyes, her legs spread to a full split. Her skin is smooth with a mole on her torso between her orange-sized breasts and her belly button. An imperfection that makes her real. She leans back in, almost touching, but never quite. I sense a welling and wish for Jane, a completion.

She completes her dancing and heads off to the dressing room and I see Molly and another dancer giving an older guy with a huge belly some special attention. Molly is in black thigh-highs and a tiny micro-skirt. The dancers are touching each other; one's hands rubbing here and the other's hands rubbing there. The other dancer caresses Molly's legs; it is vicarious touching for the man at the bar. He can't touch, but he can touch through the dancer's touch. He can imagine himself being able to touch.

The dancers are clearly having fun. Molly is expressive, her perfect teeth showing as she smiles and talks. It is a show, more sexy than sexual; it is light and fun. The juke box shifts gear and we hear "Fever," a sultry beat & the whole club takes on a different tone. Caressing. Molly gets behind the other dancer and presses up against her; Molly's hands drift around the other dancer's thin waist and disappear from my view. A stanza or two later Molly and her friend are facing each other, breasts pressed against each other, their smiles wide; I'm guessing the ol' guy is all-a-titter. As the song ends, they've turned with their backs to him, leaned over to the stage, and grind their hips in unison to the lyrics, turning and smiling at each other.

I'm thinking that even fully clothed, it's fun for a cheap night out. Certainly beats Law & Order re-runs.

I'll be home tomorrow night, late, and then Sunday is Mother's Day, a little something special planned for Jane. I'm excited to be headed home.

Google, Google, Google

Did you know that if you go to Google and type link: followed by a URL, you can see who has linked to that particular URL?

I just learned this little tidbit.

So I did it for the Sausage Factory. And, I discovered that at a filter site, I'm listed as "Conservative Porn." Here's what they say:

There exists a emerging preponderance of so called “conservative porn” which is not really porn but is somewhat “titilalting”,,,this often involves pictures of women being spanked often by their husbands as a form of “Domestic Discipline”. Advice on how to show your sexual partner “the ropes” and dubious dating advice as well as self confessed descriptions of "urban sluts” on the make. Much of this is text and graphics. It can not be described in any real way as pornography and hence we do not include it in our filtering process.

However, not everyone agrees with this position. So we are compiling a list that is a “double edged “sword. This his a list of sites which can be used as a jump of point to and seemingly endless series of these blogs and sites or you can download them and place them in any modern contemporary filter.

Hmmm... I'm thinking this is a great list to start surfing from!

Still in the Bay area

Welp. I'm still here in northern California enjoying the sights: the mountains, the weather, the women. All three are damn fine.

Last night went to a microbrewery with a couple of guys from the exposition. We'd seen enough technology to set our brains on fire, so we trucked over to this little brewpub to enjoy some good beer. I had the sampler -- ten different kinds of beer including a porter, a stout, a bitter, a wheat beer, a couple of ales, and a plisner or two. Sure, whatever, got a buzz on.

While we were there enjoying the scenery -- the well-kept lawn and the creek running past and the women (have I mentioned the women?) -- we got to talking about crazy shit, and then Clyde, a straight-shooter analyst-type, starts talking about a bachelor party he went to years ago when he got dimed. Now, here was an expression I'd never heard, but since it came directly after I told about being in a dive in Springfield, Massachussetts, when I saw a woman smoke a ciggarette I had a pretty good notion of what he was talking about, or at least what part of the anatomy he was talking about.

I was right... and I was wrong. I was right on the anatomy, but wrong on the process. I was thinking pushing out, when actually it's about picking up.

Try this: Lay down on the floor and balance a dime on the tip of your nose. The woman then squats down and lowers herself -- Clyde likened it to a helicopter landing -- to pick up the dime. Yes, with her...

I thought the time I was in Amsterdam and went to the Banana Bar and ate a banana and then one of the entertainers wrote a note to me on a postcard with -- I'd say hand but that wouldn't be the truth -- writing better than my own using my hand.

So, I'm putting on a buzz and that's the image: Clyde on the floor of some cabin in the woods with a slew of other guys watching (and getting ready or having just went), a dime balanced on his nose, and this dancer lowering her pussy down to his face to remove the dime from the tip of nose.

Now I have something I want to experience.

I seem to live on the road

Well, six hours cramped in a middle seat of a damn Airbus, and I find myself in sunny, cool, northern California. Here for a tech conference in Silicone Valley. With all the time I'm spending on the road, I'm wondering how I keep track of what's going on back at the shop. Sometimes I think the boss wants too much from me. Well, Plaid seemed to survive before I got there; I'm sure they can get along without me. Anyway, too much fun out here on the west coast.

So, Saturday Jane and I got a little frisky in the afternoon. It was, however, comedic. We kept getting interrupted: Ralph. Drew. Jane's baby sister. The neighbor's kid.

Yes, the f*ck'n neighbor's kid walks in on us as I'm rubbing Jane's breasts.

Very, very romantic, let me tell you. I do like an afternoon delight, however. But with all the interruptions? Urgh.

As we were in bed, I remembered when a little afternoon delight wouldn't have been so interrupted, but, let me tell you, that was a damn long time ago. College, I think. Sure, there have been times since then, I'm sure, but few and far between. Nothing like a lazy Saturday afternoon, lounging naked in bed with a young lass. Ah, yes.

I'm suspecting my memories of those times are clouded; they couldn't have been so good, could they have?

Anyway, so finally we were left alone. Jane disappeared into the bathroom for a couple of minutes and came out saying, "Okay, let's do it."

Now that, that is romance, let me tell you.

So, she crawled into bed and soon enough we were pawing at each other. Her breasts tasted like raspberries and her pussy was sopping wet. She'd smeared raspberry stuff on her breasts and China Nympho cream in her cunt and she was ready to go.

She was as wet and as hot as I ever felt her. When she climbed on top of me and settled her dripping pussy over my cock, I felt as if I was going to explode.

It's been a long time, you know.

And I did. Two minutes (if I'm lucky it was two minutes) and I was spent, my load deep inside her, my head buried between her breasts.

We had to finish Jane off with the purple monster. She wanted me to fuck her with it, so I did, driving it in and out of her like a pile driver, her legs spread wide and wider and wider like she was trying to suck the damn thing up her twat. And then, when she started to come, she clamped her legs shut, trapping the monster and my hand. She moaned. She buckled. And then, she quivered.

A quickie between interruptions.

And now, I'm 3000 miles away without my toy and will have to just satisfy myself with memories and my hand.