If you don't want someone reading your blog

Don't give them the URL and, as I've discovered, don't even let them find it. Here's another story of the ramifications of read blogs.

The morning after

A fitful night's sleep. The hotel room was way too chilly last night (couldn't adjust the fuck'n thermostat) and my night burrowed under the blankets was enveloped by dreams -- dreams of Indian casinos, young women with long straight hair, dancers swaying naked on stage, and one young woman (earnest in her beliefs) sloshing red wine around in a goblet-sized wine glass. And this morning I'm paying for it: my body aches, my mouth hurts, my brain is foggy, and nothing feels right.

Like a siren calling

So, I’m sitting my hotel room & the air conditioner is running full bore. I’m in a frigg’n meat locker. My mind wanders. Are there any strip clubs around here? Can I find flesh and attention? Can I find a hot touch and a fantasy?

I click on the web to find local clubs. I find four within 25 miles. The reviews aren’t all that promising, but often reality isn’t matched by words on the web. Some guys can’t find the diamonds ‘cause they’re spending too much time trying to avoid the shit. The night is dark and I remain huddled at the desk, my computer casting a pale hue throughout the room. I contemplate the list; I contemplate bugging out and jumping in the company car and finding companionship.

But I don’t. The siren’s call isn’t strong enough, isn’t loud enough, isn’t clear enough. I remain rooted to my seat, and my mind wanders. Hot red lights. Deep shadows. A sensitive hot touch. A swaying hip. A smile and a sparkle in the eyes. All imagination.

The confluence of money, alcohol, and sex

I'm at a huge casino in the middle of nowhere. We drove for what seemed like hours (it wasn't) into the woods -- the dark forests encroaching on the roads as we went deeper into the mist.

I'm awestruck. It's as large -- or bigger, likely -- than a Vegas strip casino; and, it's packed with people.

I'm watching the blackjack tables and am struck by the confluence of money, alcohol, and sex. Should I be surprised? Likely not; this is the American way, after all. And who better to lavish it, to create it, to feed off it, than the first Americans. Yes, this is a Native American casino...

I'm struck most, perhaps, by the women here. Not Vegas showgirl quality, but wholesome, cute, girl-next-door quality. Over at one table a young woman stands behind her man. She can't be a day over twenty-one or twenty-two. He's older. He is intent on the game, watching the cards cross the table. She stands behind him in tight jeans and an even tighter off-the-shoulders blouse. Plenty of skin, including the requisite swath between jeans and blouse. Later, when she bends over, I see the tattoo in the small of her back: some Chinese cast of characters.

She wanders off, leaving her beau at the table. I'll bet if he paid attention, he could still feel her hands on his shoulders, her heat against his back. But he doesn't pay attention, a drink at his elbow, his head resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes watching the cards played out on the green felt.

Were I him, I'd leave the table and drag her -- complete with her little paunch of a belly -- upstairs to one of the hotel rooms. I'd throw her to the bed, wrestle her jeans off (discarding them in a heap on the floor), spread her legs wide, and dive in to her muff, licking the pinkness, a wetness pervading all.

As I just conclude this little day dream, she reappears, red wine in a large glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She approaches; I'm standing leaning with my notepad on a marble ledge, my back to a pebbled ash tray. I say "hi," and she smiles at me.

I melt.

But you likely would have guessed that. Somehow we end up in conversation. In polite company we're told to never talk about, what, religion, sex, and politics. We missed only religion.

Her name, or so she claims, is Anastasia. She says it's her "stage name." In my wishful thinking I think perhaps she's a dancer. Later in the conversation I decide if any of what she's said is truth, likely not.

A staunch lover of all that is conservative -- including our beloved President -- Anastasia regails me with reasons the Iraqi War is just and right. I also learn she's the mother of a nearly one-year-old girl, the father isn't all that involved in her life or the life of his daughter, her own father is a conservative real estate broker, and she's reading progressive Senator Clinton's book, Living History. While she nearly leaves me abruptly after asking who I plan on voting for in the upcoming November elections, she continues to talk with me; we agree that America's greatness lies in her diversity.

Her dark eyes sparkle as she talks, animated, the glass in her hand swinging around. (Later, I'll see her leaving the casino, wine glass still in hand; her shirt is stained from wine, a red stain splashed across each heavy breast and another splash of red on her stomach. I wonder, silently, if she'd let me suck the wine from her shirt.) Several times she touches me, once on my arm, another -- as she's leaving me -- time on the small of my back. Hours later, I can imagine the warmth of her touch.

Another night in America where money, alcohol, and sex all slide together in a mixing bowl of immense proportions.

A Cry for Help

Jane and I have been having problems... if you're reading her blog, you've been keeping up with things in our house, at least from her point of view.

Yesterday evening, after a particularly gruesome argument, which was fueled by a bottle of Southern Comfort and Jane's part (and, I'm not sure it provided any Southern comfort), I took Miller out so we could find new nipples for his bottles. He only likes Enfamile orthodontic nipples; anything else and he refuses to eat, no matter how hungry he is.

So, we're headed back home after our little outing; I'm coming from over Durham way when my wireless email pinged. And this is what it said:

I know we are at odds with what we want in life. I am sorry that I am holding you back from whatever it is that you are looking for. I don't think that I can apologize enough. I'm not quite sure what to do to make it up to you. Please accept this as my suicide note. Kind of like a resignation from life. I can't function anymore. Please let Miller know that I love him. I know that this is the selfish way out, but I can't take this kind of hurt. I DO love him. I want him to know that. Please kiss him good-bye for me. Make sure that he grows up happy. I hope that you find happiness. Thank Beth for me.

Shit. I didn't know what do to. I called home; the line was busy. I didn't have numbers of any neighbors, and I'm thinking this reads remarkably like a suicide note.

I called the cops.

I race home, ignoring all speed limit signs, Miller asleep in the back of the car.

I get home before the police; I bolt inside and Jane is at the computer, surfing through her tears. No, she said, she wasn't going to kill herself.

I race back downstairs; two police cars are running in park outside; the cops can't find the address. "In here," I said.

They ended up taking her to the hospital for a psych eval. I think the counsel she was provided there was that I'm an asshole.

I guess I am, although not as large or in the ways she thinks I am.

And this is my life...

At least my Zoloft is working, having removed the lows. Of course, it's also removed the highs, my creative energy, and my libido. But, hey, so be it, huh?

It's like a swingers' party...

Only there's no swinging... er, sure...

A vacation owed

Heading west to a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains... Y'all have a good couple of weeks, y'a hear.

Jane's been doing some reading

Jane's been doing some reading. Of blogs, that is. First, there was a comment on her blog from Magdala a sub somewhere in the heartland of America. Magdala's blog is Magdala's Submission, and it is, to say the least, a hot read. When Jane first read it, she reported she got wet, and stayed wet, all day at work. Hmmm.

So, anyway, then there was Jane's realization that people are actually reading her blog. She put a counter on the blog earlier this week and all of a sudden more than a dozen people have perused her writings. Her little journal just for herself is suddenly out in the open and people are reading it.

Back to Magdala. Magdala is a good little sub, and I think this hit a cord with Jane. She's got submissive tendencies, but can't pull it off as a lifestyle. Well, or I can't pull of the dom thing 7x24. Whatever... Anyway, hearing that Magdala's blog got Jane all hot and bothered, I went over a took a read. Caught a few ideas.

So, last night, I climb into bed. We're resting next to each other, and I said, "So you like that blog, huh?" She replied, "I guess." I grapped her hair and started pushing her down toward my stiff cock. Let her be a little sub. "But I don't want to suck it." Not like I cared at that point. Pretty soon she was slurbing away at it; between deep sucks, she acknowledged she's a cum slut. I tasted her milk while feeling her wet cunt. She started out slow, but pretty soon was slick and humping my hand. Then I pulled her panties off, climbed atop her, and a good little fuck, my cock sliding into her wetness, our lips locked in a kiss.

This morning I woke up and took her from behind. As noted many times before: she likes it that way.

Yeh, so do I.

Thanks, Magdala; I appreciate your visit to our blogs.

To everyone else, feel free to post a comment with a link to your blog; we'd love to read.

Taking the argument to the open

Jane, what I take offense to is your insinuation that I can’t teach my sons how to be men.

Everyone is Blogging!

Blogging is taking over. First, we hear that select bloggers are going to receive press credentials at the Democratic Convention. Then, we learn that even President Clinton is keeping a blog.

What's next?

Back home: reality sets in

I'm back home. The week away was good, but it sure wasn't reality. Here's reality: a messy house, three kids, Jane, and work responsibilities. Yeh, this is reality.

If this is reality, then it includes a healthy dose of sex. Arrived home the other night, and that evening Jane and I were scrumping like rabbits. Although, I'm not sure rabbits moan and flail about. ;-)

For Sam, and anyone else who is keeping track: we're eight weeks from the birth of the baby, and maybe six weeks since the breast feeding stopped... and there's still milk. We were in bed, and I was fondling Jane's breasts when she said there was still milk. A second later and the breast was in my mouth, me drawing the nibble deep inside. Yes, there was milk: warm & almost sweet. I had some from both sides, and then we fucked like mad. And then we took a break. And then, forty minutes later, were back at it.

Yeh, as much as I bitch and complain, it is nice to be home.

Round Two at Rolls Royce

These clubs are always the same, and yet always unique. Friday night at Rolls Royce: the cover has magically gone up since the other night. In the confusion with the ambulance, I slipped in for free, not knowing there was a cover. Tonight, I wasn’t so lucky, and I think they’ve jacked up the price for the weekend.

Busier tonight. Women in various stages of undress, a steady procession of couples headed upstairs. The DJ is obnoxious, cutting in to the songs with inane comments. Here downstairs, couples are leaning in to each other, lots of touching; girls on guys’ laps.

Nicole brings me my drink: Diet Coke. As I noted earlier, what’s the difference between a waitress and a dancer? Nicole is a knockout young lady with long straight brown hair, bright eyes, and a great smile. Oh, and a body that puts many of the dancers to shame. She’s showing the requisite four inches around the midriff. I ask her about Stephanie and she grins, “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” If Stephanie doesn’t show, perhaps Nicole will sit and chat. Were it not so busy, I’d ask her.

On stage, a dancer has her legs wrapped around a balding, bi-speckled man in a coat and tie. I catch her eye, and she smiles at me from over the guy’s shoulder. She doesn’t miss a beat, and he is oblivious as he’s surrounded by her flesh and warmth.

It’s an interesting culture. I wonder what it would be like to be in the business. Perhaps I could own a joint like this. Here in New England, where there doesn’t seem to be same moral constraints as in the Bible-thumping South, things look pretty good: fully nude, alcohol, lots of touching. A business owner couldn’t almost not go wrong: each dancer pays the house a nightly pay-out; for most clubs it runs something like forty or fifty bucks; that could add up to nearly two grand a day just from the dancers’ fees. Add in the bar, and it’s a veritable cash cow.

Summer dances, a clingy summer dress, strapless; she makes her hips and ass move in a way that just makes me want to jump up on stage and grind with her.

I get approached for upstairs dances by two women. I say “no.” I can’t say “yes” to everyone, but I hate to say no. Rejection. I don’t want to, but my wallet would cry foul sooner or later.

I could lose track of all time here: it’s always cool and dark and red; the music is loud. Like most gentlemen’s clubs, Rolls Royce has a huge runway; this one’s in the round with two brass poles. Most of the dancers use the pole as a prop, perhaps twisting around it casually. Summer used them as tools, somehow getting to the top of one, her legs wrapped around the pole, as she leaned backward toward the floor. Her breasts, full; her nipples so hard I can see them from fifteen feet away; they stand at attention, two soldiers guarding precious jewels.

Shift change, and as the dancers come and go, they look like the proverbial girl next door, although perhaps a bit more lithe. Damn, I wished I lived in that neighborhood.

Lap dance from Yvonne. Tall drink of water (she says she’s 5-10 in bare feet; she’s wearing four inch heels), long blonde hair, fake boobs. Fun, but alas, she knows she’s good looking and thus isn’t as much fun as she might otherwise be. Does that make sense? Musky perfume that pulled me in. But, I need some sort of connection beyond playful sarcasm; I need a little something that makes it seem less like the business it is.

I talk with Summer; we lean toward each other and talk about reality versus fantasy, how some guys don’t get that this is a world that’s not real. And then she tells me she’s dated guys she’s met at the club. I tell her not to tell me that; I’ll think my reality might be able to collide with her’s. Summer introduces me to Kristine. She joins us and sits back on the couch, running her hands all over her luscious body, tracing her bikini bottoms. Summer suggests I take her up stairs; Kristine is a good little toy, she tells me. We go upstairs for a little dance. I last just past one dance; she’s either really horny or a really good actress. While she dances, we talk. Rather, I listen and prompt, and she talks, all the while rubbing herself all over me. She claims she hasn’t had oral sex for four years (or maybe it was six; frankly, my mind was lost). She’s a handful, clearly. More long straight hair. Says she’s going through a divorce and hasn’t had sex in nearly forever; her husband claims she’s gained too much weight. Okay, she’s not a size 2, but she’s all woman with curves in all the right places.

Downstairs later, Kristine and I are talking, and I see Stephanie across the room, sitting at a table. She’s wearing a think white top with spaghetti straps, her pert breasts alive in the darkness. Kristine tells me she needs to head out; she’s day shift and has a night on the town with a bunch of girlfriends planned. They’ve rented a limo or a bus or some such and plan on having a huge, bar-hopping, drunken night. On her way to change, she stops by Stephanie to tell her I’m waiting in the shadows. I hadn’t asked her to tell Stephanie; I had told her I’d spent time with Stephanie the other night. A brief act, but a telling one: selfless.

Even in a place like this: decency. Summer had encouraged me to get a dance from Kristine, rather then trying to “sell” herself. Kristine told Stephanie I was at the club. Not cut-throat. In some ways, it’s a microcosm of the world outside; sure it has it’s own rules and boundaries, and in some ways its more predicable. But, it’s still human beings creating relationships.

On stage a dancer has her feet tucked behind her head. Damn. Earlier there’d been a little lesbian show: two dancers caressing and kissing each other on center stage. And, I’m told that later in the evening the “featured dancers” will go even further, playing with toys. Reminds me of the three most amazing things I’ve seen in a club like this:

• A woman smoke a cigarette. Yes, not with her mouth. Springfield, Massachusetts, some two decades ago.



• A woman launch a ping pong ball from her twat. Damn thing went a good five feet. The Banana Club in Amsterdam.



• A woman wrote a note. Yes, she stuck a Sharpie marker in her pussy and then squatted down and wrote me a note. I still have it. Same club in Amersterdam.

Aside from having an interest in what a woman can do with her, er, body, I’m interested in the intersection between this reality and the reality of the outside world. I’d like to do a sociological study. Here I am, in this club: twenty year old, pretty women flirt with bald, middle aged, bellied men. That seldom happens in the outside world.

Kristine had said she was going to call me while out with her friends… so we could hook up. Sure. That’s the outside world. While she’d been dancing on my lap, she almost kissed me on the lips; I wondered how out of her mind she might have been. She also made mention of “nice package” (it’s not bigger than others, or so I think) and “this would be nice to ride.” Ah, yeah, comments like that and I’ll be driven to believe the reality of Rolls Royce might collide with my outside, real-world reality. Sure, that’ll happen.

Later, back at my hotel, she doesn’t call, of course. But let’s say she does. She calls, buzzed and freaky. She’s in the lobby of the hotel, her girlfriends egging her on; they say she needs a good lay. I tell her to come on up. A minute or two later she’s at my door. I’m wearing comfortable Sponge Bob boxers and cotton pajama bottoms. She’s wearing a short little skirt and a tight top, all black. She steps in, eyes aglitter with anticipation (and alcohol). She crosses the threshold and falls into my arms, her large breasts pressed against my chest. We stumble back and fall into the king-sized bet. Our lips lock as I hold her head in my hands. I can taste the beer on her breath.

My hands travel tow her breasts. My fingers slide under her shirt and pull gently at her nipples. Pretty soon, she’s laying back propped up on the four pillows, her skirt pulled up around her waist, and I’m resting between her legs, my head pressed up against her, my tongue licking at the wetness of her pussy. She’s wet and moaning as I lick and bite; her hands grasp my bald head and pull me close to her. She’s moaning, growling, grinding, whispering, all at once. Six years, and I’m rewarding her long wait.

No, the reality of it is as I picture it” she’s out carousing with friends, traveling from bar to bar, from hot spot to hot spot, in a white stretch limo, the alcohol clouding her brain so that she doesn’t even remember my phone number stuffed in her skirt pocket.

The world of fantasy and the world of reality once again do not collide.

Rolls Royce: Clubbing in New England

I pull up as an ambulance drives into the parking lot; this is the first club I could find in the city, and I'm not sure I want to spend the time looking for another. I park the rental car – a Jeep Grand Cherokee – and glance in the rearview mirror: they’re loading someone into the back. A load and go. By the time I get to the club’s entrance, the diesel engine of the rig is racing; they’re ready to go. I almost step in two huge pools of blood at the door.

I’m thinking I’ve never made an entrance like this. At first I’d thought maybe a customer had a heart attack – you know, the dancers got to him so much, a little over-excitement for a weak heart. But pooled blood at the door tells another story. I decide I don’t need the full story and head inside: it’s loud and dark and red. Half a Rolls Royce greets me as I cross the threshold. Who the hell cuts a Rolls in half?

No sooner have I sat down than a dancer is on me. She’s blonde and built, but her breasts are fake. I should tell you, I’m still in my suit from client meetings today. Perhaps I look like money. She’d be very disappointed to learn I have $38 in my pocket. She’s all over me, hands under my suit coat, rubbing my shirt. “I’m horny; come upstairs and we’ll get to know each other.” I tell her no, but it takes several utterances before she registers I’m serious. I need to get used to the club. She’s undone my tie and walks away, a pout on her lips that’s all act.

I do need to get the lay of the land. I can’t walk in, cold, to a place. Especially if I’ve never been there before. I need to get acclimated, get used to it.

Whenever I’m in a club, writing, I always get the “what are you writing.” The notion of a sex blog, even in a club like this, is foreign to many dancers. You’d think that working in the industry they’d have a notion about various aspects.

I’m approached by two dancers – each tells me their stage name, and then tells me their real name. I wonder why. Do I look like some trustworthy guy who needs to know the truth? Although I do know this is the only place in the world where a pretty, sweet young thing will hang out & flirt with an old, middle aged, bald guy like me.

Stephanie tells me she’s been dancing since Saint Patty’s Day. She can’t be a day over 19, long straight hair to the middle of her back, white mesh stockings with garters, a bright infectious smile, tangling sparkly earrings. Small breasts. A small waist. Real. I’m attracted.

We chat for a while; she is a day over 19; she’s twenty. Tall & petite. We chat for a bit and then head upstairs for a little lap dance. Topless. She sits me down on a low comfortable couch. She sits next to meet, close, until the start of the next song. Then she gets up, hovers over me, and then rubs against me. She’s positioned herself so the bouncer, sitting across the darkened room, can’t see me; I’m hidden by her lithe body and her hair. Her breasts are small, with tiny nipples. I’m not sure I’m allowed to touch them; I do. She grinds in to me. Her skin becomes wet with perspiration. Her perfume, some sort of vanilla, envelopes me. She grinds, always touching. I’ve grown rock hard, my cock would be tenting my suit trousers, but she’s on me; once she gets up and turns away, sitting on my lap so I am faced with her back, but generally she is atop me, grinding her crotch against mine. At the start of the fourth song, I come. I’m sure I utter something obscure. For the rest of the song, she rests on me; I hold her tight, my hands around her waist.

I was reminded of my ability to bring a woman nearly to the brink of an orgasm and then floundering. I wonder what sexual excitement she gets from this, if any. There’s a part of my that realizes this is all business, but there’s another part of me that wants her to get something in return. I had thought she was enjoying it, but, then, I just don’t know.

This place is full of young dancers… they’re all pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous, sort of a sampling of cute girl-next-door types. Hope was going to be a waitress here, but ended up dancing. I wonder how a young lady makes the leap from waitress to stripper. Sure, in some clubs there’s not much difference in the amount of skin shown, but not here. She’s a dancer, willing to bare it all. And she does; when we were upstairs, she moved her bikini bottom to show me her lips; they were full. In another place, in another life, I would have dived right in.

Across the way, a dancer is giving a lap dance at a table. The energy in the club has picked up, and Hope and I are surrounded now by dancers talking and moving about. The lap dancer has that faraway look; I’ve seen it before, disengaged.

Stephanie and I talk; somehow she gets me talking about my life. I tell her about Miller and a little about Jane. I become lost; my depression, which had been at bay, crept in. She leaned in to hug me, a real hug of meaning. Empathy.

While Stephanie is off changing, the dancer who first accosted me is back. “Let’s go upstairs now,” she says. “You look ready for pussy.” I try to explain I’ve had a good dance upstairs, got everything I wanted (and then some). “You haven’t had me. You haven’t had anything.” Oh, to the contrary I think. I’ve had my fill. “You don’t know anything,” she says with a snide accent.

I wonder if she knows her fake boobs and hardcore persona don’t do a thing for me. I like conversation beyond “Want some pussy?” Be likeable. Be real. Be compassionate.

Stephanie enters the room, having changed into a soft white top and short, hip-hugger pants. She’s so pretty, that even from across the room, my breath is stolen. She joins me, and we talk about her dream house she wants to build. She tries to draw it for me, but the scribbling on the paper makes no sense to me. But she is enthusiastic about the project and describes bits and pieces of the house so that I can almost see it. She says it’s clear in her mind’s eye. I pray that it comes true for her, that she creates that haven in the country, that her life is full of beauty and love, that the trials of her life (which she has alluded to) all slip away in some sense of usual life. We talk, she doodles, and I’m staring at her long neck, her upturned nose, her long features. I see the mix of Sicilian, French Canadian, and Mohegan she says are her ancestry. I’m staring, and she glances up; I blush. “Sorry,” I say. “I was staring.”

“Stare all you want,” she says, her smile wide showing perfect white teeth, her eyes sparkling even in the red dim light of the club.

I don't need to know the back story on the blood in the doorway. Right here, I've found what will make my heart stop; I'll be carted out by EMTs, another "load and go." And I think, that'll be alright with me...

No sex here...

Well, dear readers... here I am; I'm still here... currently traveling for the job... I'd like to report that there's been sex in my life, but there hasn't been.

Jane's at home with the baby. She IM'd me yesterday to report that she's still producing milk even though the baby has given up the breast and is taking formula. And I'm not at home to sample the goods.

There hasn't been much sex of late, actually. We did have a good scrumping session earlier this week, but I've lost interest. I think it's because I'm depressed. I've lost interest in sex. And a whole load of other things which used to bring me pleasure. And I can't stand my job. And I have a difficult time getting out of bed. I need to snap out of it and get back on track.

I do have to say the scrumping earlier this week was nice. We seem to always end up doing it doggy style with Jane's face buried in the pillows, with my ploughing into her wetness. Yeh, it feels so good to drive into her.

But it's not happening much. And I can't even seem to get up the energy to drive to some strip club here. I went online to see what's here and found a good dozen clubs. Ah, maybe later...

Returning home two days early...

Jane called me tonight to tell me she was returning from her trip north tonight; that's two days earlier than planned...

So, let's review:

1. Jane wants to not return back to work. She wants to be a stay-at-home mom,

2. Jane has no health insurance.

3. Mr. Winky has a job... actually, Mr. Winky has a full-time job and a part-time job and a part-time not-yet-making-any-money part-time self-employed gig.

4. Mr. Winky's parents, who have never before actually interfered in Mr. Winky's life and have been model, supportative parents, have strongly suggested Mr. Winky marry Jane.

5. Jane's car currently needs some $600 worth of repairs.

6. Jane has moved in with Mr. Winky. Now, Mr. Winky, Jane, and Miller live together full-time and Drew & Ralph are in the house a tad under half the time.

7. Oh, did I mention Mr. Winky thinks he may be depressed? Mr. Winky feels like he's under a huge amount of pressure. Maybe Mr. Winky needs to see a shrink, get on some cognitive behavioral therapy and maybe start taking happy pills to boot.

Ah, well, at least I'll likely get laid when Jane returns tonight...

Things plod along...

Well, here we are, some six weeks after Miller's arrival. Jane has taken Miller and gone north to visit her family; her sister gave birth to a new daughter yesterday. I wonder what it is about Jane's family... She and two of her sisters all conceived within weeks of each other; it's like they have to do everything together.

So now the house is silent. Last night I climbed in bed around 7:30 and fell right asleep, fully clothed, the lights on, the front door unlocked, the car windows down, contact lenses still in my eyes. I think I needed the sleep.

Time with Jane has been pretty good these last few weeks. Last week she was utterly helpful to the point where I wondered what the hell was going on. She did the laundry, ran some errands for me, cooked, etc... And she was so sweet about it all, too... scary.

We screwed like rabbits once or twice. For those of you who were tracking, her milk is nearly dried up (this is what happens when you stop breast feeding), although I did get a little nibble the other night. Took a bit to get the draw, a deep sucking, drawing the nipple in. Later, I grabbed her hair and pushed her down to my crotch; she took my schlong in her mouth and sucked it fully, drawing it deep in her mouth, the wetness slurpping. Then we fucked -- and I say fucked, 'cause that's what it was: a mad humping, she on her knees with me behind her, my cock in her wetness, a mad pumping and pumping, her face buried in the bed and pillows and every once in a while me grabbing her hair and pulling her head up.

She IM'd me a little while ago, telling me she doesn't want to go back to work but be a stay-at-home-mom... you don't think the being nice, doing stuff around the house, and the great sex is a preamble to this, do you?

Oh, and then this past weekend, my father met Jane (Mom had been here to help with the baby a couple weeks ago)... my father pulled me aside and told me I should stop messing around and marry her... "She's a great mother," he said. I need to make things as right as possible...

Hmmm... What's going on here?

Supporting education: "Knowledge is Good"

Always one to further knowledge and support education, I'm currently promoting the Encyclopedia of Sex, the webs best source of sexual terms and definitions at www.encyclopedia-of-sex.com. I urge all of you to surf on over and help this English major with his honors project. Years ago, when I was a young English major, I wrote a shitty thesis on authorial literary intention from a desconstructionist point of view. I should have been as bright as Chris and stuck with sex; at least then I would have focused on something I actually knew.

Milk... Mothers... Mother's Day...

I guess we'll start with milk, since that's what one loyal reader is interested in. The milk is sweet and flows fairly easily (doesn't take much sucking). And, yes, Jane's breasts have gotten bigger. I wouldn't say they're huge, but she can't lean over the keyboard any more... ;-) The baby, Miller, hasn't gotten the hang of taking to the breast. I've had to show him, but he still doesn't get it; he takes his nurishment by the bottle.... that way the milk just drips into his mouth and he doesn't actually have to suck.

Overheard at the hospital pharmacy: a couple of nurses talking about a patient. Seems a new born had some sort allergic reaction. The doctor had suggested that the child and the father had both shared the same breast -- the baby after the father after the father had eaten honey. The nurses poo-poo'd this; no mother would allow the father to feed on the breast a month or two after the baby was born.

I'm thinking these nurses were fairly vanilla and not very creative in terms of dreaming of possibilities.

Fatherhood is great; I enjoy Miller's weight on my chest as he sleeps. Even now, he's in his little snuggly thing, secure to my chest. Sure, there's not much sex, but, hey, sex isn't everything...

As to the visit to my ex-girlfriend the bimbo: I'd like to set the record straight. The ex-girlfriend is, indeed, ex, but still a friend. And she is in no way a bimbo (other than that she spent time with me, but then that would paint others with the same brush). The former live-in girlfriend (Beth, from years ago) wants a child; she enjoyed holding Miller. She gave Miller an outfit which, when we returned home, Jane wanted to throw away. Jane's said that Miller will never wear it. I'm thinking the outfit isn't diaper friendly (pants without buttons for easy access to change the diaper) but otherwise is a handsome outfit. Jane doesn't like it only because it came from Beth. I think this is pretty small and Jane is easily bent out of shape. It seems to me that Jane feels it's okay for her to do whatever she wants, but I'm not allowed to see old friends or accept gifts for the baby. My former spouse, Kathleen, made Miller a baby quilt; Jane was okay with this, but probably only because she knows Kathleen would never sleep with me again -- too hooked to Don. Sure, whatever. I think I need to call Frankie... or Tammy...

There's a funny story about Tammy... six or eight weeks ago, before Miller arrived, Tammy called me to hook up. I was at a bar with a colleague, drinking, and told her I'd be home in a hour or two... She came over to the house and parked across the street, waiting for me. I had way too much to drink and spent way too much time at the bar and stumbled home three hours after our little conversation. She was still out front. I saw her in her car and snuck in the back door and slinked upstairs to bed, too drunk and too tired to put up with her. I'm thinking she was a bit needy.

Okay, as to Mother's Day: on Tuesday I took Jane out to dinner and gave her a gift certificate to a day spa. Perhaps too little, too late, but at least she might realize I'm not a total heel.

Do you know what happens...

When you forget Mother's Day for a brand new mother?

Yeh, you're better off not knowing... ;-)

Life clicks along...

The delay... well, I offer no excuse, 'cause a lack of blogging is inexcusable. I've been overtaken by events.

An update:

1. Jane moved in.

2. The baby was born (two weeks ago), weighing in at over ten pounds.

3. I said Jane and I weren't going to have sex, but we've only not had sex according to a former president's definition of sex... twice in the last couple of days, the late night has found me suckling on Jane's huge breasts, drinking in her milk, stealing it from our son. In a moment of passion, I kissed Jane, mouth full of her milk, so that she could taste the sweet nectar. My hands on her wet sex, playing with her clit, bringing her to an orgasam. Later, I jerked off in her face, my cum splaying across her cheeks.

Yeh, sure, we're not having sex.