Jane's not pregnant

Jane's also not talking to me. Well, that's not exactly true. She is now... but...

This past weekend found us at home, alone, on Sunday afternoon. Lilly (Jane's sister... who's living with us... if you're attempting to keep track of the players) took Miller to the park. We'd already taken Drew and Ralph back to their mother's house, so it was just Jane and I at home. Alone. I suggested we have a little afternoon delight.

Jane thought I was kidding.

I went up to the bedroom and climbed into bed, waiting for her. I think I took my pants off and was holding Mr. Winky when she finally came in the room. I think she then realized I hadn't been kidding.

So, we messed around, and then I got a little playful and decided Jane needed to be straightened out a bit. She didn't want me spanking her, so I got some old ties and tied her, spread-eagle, to the bed. Oh, did I mention she'd just changed the sheets -- new sheets she'd just purchased this week. Nice sheets.

I wasn't sure what to do, and then I remembered this penis ice cube thing in the freezer. I went down to get it. Six inches of ice cock. I played a bit with it, stuffing it into Jane, and then decided she needed something more. So I broke out the purple monster...

The damn batteries were dead. Corroded, as a matter of fact. I had to leave Jane, with the ice cock jammed in her, to go downstairs and find batteries. When I came up, I had with me a popsicle, too. So, I started playing with the popsicle, the purple monster, the ice cock, and my own cock.

I'd stick the popsicle in her drenched pussy, pull it in and out, and then, just as she was screaming about the cold, I'd pull it out and slide my stiff cock in her. The sensation of cold hot was just incredible.

After I finally came, I decided Jane needed a good fucking with the purple monster. When she finally came, she arched off the bed, the ties straining; she screamed so loud I was sure the neighbors were going to call the police.

In the end, she was covered in blue from the popsicle, all over her breasts, her belly, her legs, and her pussy. And she was quite spent.

That was Sunday.

Monday found me at work (where else would I be, right). Jane called to chat. I was between machine set-ups, so I had a couple of minutes. And she started telling me about Lilly... that Lilly had just gotten back from her new boyfriends and he'd done her good and her ass was raw from the spanking he'd given her (the "dirty little slut" that she is) and she was now standing there, in the dining room, and she was shaved bare. I got this image of Lilly, her lithe body and her shaved pussy and her fuckable ass, and I got a little hard-on just thinking of that image...

That was Monday.

I don't remember Tuesday, but Wednesday found me having woken up on the wrong side of the bed, I guess, and when I went downstairs and was confronted with the mess -- including the dirty dishes that Jane had said the night before she'd do -- I guess I just broke. I said a few things, taking digs at Jane's housework. That wasn't the thing to do. She started throwing things, including a couple of high-heeled shoes. Thankfully, she wasn't throwing them at me, although I was afraid she was going to. Like the time she threw the frozen sausages at me. I ended up going off to work thinking I should stay away forever.

When I got back that evening, she wouldn't really talk to me. She'd told me earlier we were going to have meatloaf for dinner. I'd been looking forward to meatloaf all day. I arrived home a bit before 6:30 to discover that she and Lilly and Miller had all eaten, and it wasn't meatloaf but Sloppy Joe meat and I could just eat alone, thank-you-very-much.

That sucked, let me just tell you.

Thursday, Jane was talking to me, sort of. I least she laughed several times when I made a funny.

But no sex since Sunday. And likely not to get any for a long, long time.

Maybe Lilly needs a strong hand on her ass?

P.S. Yes, the f*cking nuts never got mailed. I don't think they need to, as Beth (sometimes referred to as She Who Must Not Be Named has dropped off the face of the earth. There's no need to actually mail the nuts. Beth -- and all the other women -- are non-issues. They are, how's it go, dead to me.

February 13th, 2006

Jane has a habit of doodling notes on papers and then leaving them adrift throughout the house. The other night I came across a 3x5 card with my name spelled out some dozen times, some doodling, some guy's name, and the date February 13, 2006.

Simon: "Hey, Jane, what's the 13th of February 2006?"

Jane: "The day before Valentine's Day."

Simon: "Right. Why'd you write it on this card."

Jane: "No reason."

A beat. Jane starts to laugh. The laugh gets pretty deep.

Jane: "I remember now."

Simon: "Okay. Are you going to share with me?"

Jane, reaching for her daily BC pill: "It's the day your next child is born."

Simon: "You're pregnant?"

Jane: "I don't know."

Simon: "If you're pregnant you shouldn't be taking those pills... And just when were you going to tell me."

Jane: "Well, I'll know for sure in four days."

So, if Jane thinks she might be pregnant, I guess we have been having at least some sex.

And then, last night, as I'm drifting off to sleep, Jane says, "I think we should start seeing other people."

"What!?" I think. "Where the hell did that come from?"

So, I say to her, "I think that's the stupidist idea I've ever heard." And then I face off to sleep.

Today at work, the grinding of the factory floor making my desk shake, I think to myself that beyond that being the stupidist idea I've ever heard, she'd never actually allow it, Little Ms. Double Standards and I don't even want you looking at another woman.

Meanwhile, I'm here... waiting for the day before Valentine's Day.

Too much information

The secrets we keep... Check this out...

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.

You'd be amazed at what you can find on the web

I Googled myself, and came upon a post that set me laughing. Deep belly laughs as Jane and Miller and Dee and her three kids minivan up the East Coast headed for home here in Raleigh. The blog is Excess, and Dinkydog (my word, I do hope that's not her given name) wrote:

Amazing news of the day: I think I talked the honey into cruising out to the Club for an afternoon of billiards at some elusive time in the future. How did this come about after his prior adamant refusals, you might ask. Well, glad you did. I was doing my general fucking around on-line yesterday evening, right after updating "ze blog". Now, my general fucking around usually encompasses checking a few other "daily read" blogs for updates, logging into Alt to see what new loser didn't bother reading my profile before sending me a message, and occasionally hitting the "next blog" button at the top of this page. Yesterday's russian roulette of "nexting" brought me to the following blogs...Northern European Sausage Factory, and that of his wife, Jane Says.

Now, just as an aside, Simon Winky sounds like my kinda guy and separately, his wife sounds cool, whiny, but cool. Together, they sound like a match made in one of the lower circles of hell. Not my place to judge at all (and I'm not), but I don't see this one hitting silver anniversaries.

So anyway, Simon mentions a swingers club in his sidebar...

I'm attempting to get my ass out of the academic fire & I'm still at work burning through company paper and toner as I print out reams of journal articles for this damn research class, and, for shits-and-grins, I Googled myself, and when I came to the I don't see this one hitting silver anniversaries my funny bone was somehow struck and burst out laughing. The cleaning woman, Silvia, was across the way and glanced over at me as she emptied a waste basket into her cart; I think she thinks I'm stoned, and I don't just mean right now.

Well, Dinkydog, write me, and I'll tell you all about the Club.

Meanwhile, Jane is some four hours away and just text messaged me. Then I would come home for a little bit of SEX and a nice B.J. Hmm. Guess she'll be primed tonight.

Jane returns tomorrow

Twenty-four hours from now, and Jane will be here. I am both excited (awash with anticipation) and distressed (since whenever I don't provide her 100% attention, she feels put-off & then takes it out on me... and, frankly, I'm concerned about failing the one class I remain deliquent in. I could use the time to continue working rather than "relating."). This is my life, I suppose.

For those of you who are more inclined to play than bitch, may I recommend two sites for your perusal: Blowfish and the Liberator. Enjoy!

Let me get through the term, and Jane & I will be joining you.

My new favorite blog

Things have been slow here in Raleigh. Jane and Miller have gone south to Louisiana to visit Jane's great-grandmother. That's left me here with the two older boys and Jane's baby sister. Yeh, right, baby sister. Twenty-one and screwing like a fucking rabbit.

Here's my new favorite blog: PantiesPantiesPanties. I've always had a thing for Japanese women...

And, to my Boston friend, yes, things have changed, contrary to my post and your mail: we're not sleeping together. Perhaps we ought to roll back the clock?

;-)

That's it for now; sorry there's no detail here: I am less than 10 days from the end of the term and all set-up to fail a research class unless there's a miracle. I'm off to try and create a miracle.

A loyal reader responds

Okay, maybe she's not a loyal reader, and maybe the respondent isn't a woman (but I'm guessing it's not a man, but I'm likely wrong and sexist to boot, eh?), but the following was posted below:

Why did you get married? Sheesh, you write this kind of stuff and your wife is at home watching the baby.

Pathetic. Grow up and realize that "sparkle" in their eyes wouldn't be there if they were married to you. Please.

Okay; to answer:

• Why did I get married? I got married because I love Jane and want to spend my life with her. That we have a son together, well, that might have played into the decision, too.



• As to the sparkle in women's eyes: Jane has a sparkle, too. As does Kathleen, my former spouse. As do many women. Perhaps, dear reader, had you and I married, you'd have lost your sparkle. :-)

Okay, perhaps that was cold. Suffice it to say: Jane and I have been married for a touch over five months. That we have a relationship which has a bit of freakiness in it. That we're two people trying to make it in the world, alone and together.

Had I not been on the road for work, I'd have been home with the baby... And there are evenings when Jane heads out to Osaka's, and I'm left home with Miller.

And, if I sound defensive, I'm sorry. I guess I am.

And, to my two old friends-in-the-flesh who read this blog: nothing much has changed in twenty years, eh?

Again & on the road

On the road again. Arrived here along the shores of one of the Great Lakes yesterday to find that the weather wasn't as spring-like as it is in Raleigh; nope, not a bit.

Arrived at the hotel in darkness, my breath showing in the too cool air. Unpacked in my room to find that Jane had packed me a present: a little something she picked up at one of the recent "toy" parties. I guess she figured that since I hadn't gotten a proper send-off this trip (everyone conspired against us) and last trip found me tossing a few bills down on the rail, she wanted me to stay in.

I guess that's one way: if I can't have the real thing, this is the next best thing.

At the airport, I'd picked up a copy of Penthouse and Penthouse Letters for a little evening reading. Once I'd unpacked, I decided I should do some reading. Soon, I was pretty hard (I dig the letters), and I decided I ought to try the "Super Stretch Beaded" bedroom accessory. I pushed into it and soon was pumping away, the little beads throwing sensations along my ridge. Didn't take long for me to spurt into the accessory, the channel filling with my white spunk.

Yeh, maybe this will keep me from hitting the club circuit. ;-)

Where, exactly, did that connectedness go?

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.

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.

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.