Warning! Graphic sex act, which may or may not be erotic.

Proceed with caution.

Jo-Jo was the name he used at the bars. Corny and banal, but it did the trick. The Johns knew who to ask for. They lied to their wives about working late on the Higginbotham or. the Whatchamacallit account .

They showed up around 5:30, bought the driest vodka Martini imaginable. made small talk with the bartender, looking and sounding like some grey flannel executive, worn out by the rigors of professional bull-shitting.

Then Jo-Jo walked in. He could pick the horniest with the thickest wallet, who was prepared to bugger Jo-Jo in the single stall of the Gents‘ Room. Jo-Jo was ready. He‘d squirt a loaf of K-Y up his ass for his preparation.

„Tough day at work, Buddy?“

A nod of agreement

„I can work the kinks out of you in about 5 minutes“, pointing to the toilet.

He strolled away and slid into the head. He perched himself on the shitter so his feet were invisible and the John would look like he was taking a piss.

If he wasn’t hard all ready , Jo-Jo would take the dude’s cock deep in his throat til it was serviceable then twirl around and offer his pre-lubed ass. And in a matter of a few minutes, the Happy Hour ass fuck would be done. And 20 dollars would be on the lavatory sink.

When was the last time, Ladies, you fellated your husband?

You’d think with the money they make, the players could afford decent haircuts, but no. They look like they escaped from a Hee Haw rehearsal.

If it takes a constitutional amendment to ban the designated hitter rule, it’s a small price to pay.

Thinking how good it would feel have your pink and naked skin rub against me , to probe for your wet and eager cunt with fingers I find your clit all pert eager, ready for slow then faster strokes, as your hips buck up to meet my fingers.

A dab of wet seems needless but my fingers want to fill you as you ride my fingers to your private heaven.

It is 0145. Once again I can’t sleep

When I was 23 years old, I joined The Marine Corps. I was in the 88th OCC, C Company. It took me about 24 hours to realise I had no business being there and dropped on request at the first chance I had. I did nothing wrong. And yet, I have an enormous sense of shame about this career choice.

I came home to collect delinquent auto loans for a bank that doesn’t exist any more. I moved to selling life insurance, property casualty insurance, hating these jobs as much as I did the Marine Corps, if not more. I met frauds, alcoholics, and con men ( Ponzi scheme operators).

Finally, I found work resetting grocery store category sections. It wasn’t bad, nor was it good. It was tolerable enough to endure. I got paid for „drive time“ to drive to god-forsaken places like Colonial Beach , Virginia, where I once saw bald eagles eat road kill.

I’ve managed to stay sober for almost 32 years, through deaths of my parents, job loss and divorce. I used the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

For me , recovery and sober living is about telling the truth about my life, facing the truth without flinching.

That is the whole point of this post.

It’s a multiple choice question

All of The Above

None of The Above

It’s a fuckin’ shame when libidos go out of synchrony or one partner’s desire disappears all together.

Maybe should I just lick her cunt or her asshole? Licking her ass might be the quickest way to get thrown out of the house.

I could ask her if she’s ever masturbated. Is there a seminar on jerking off for 71 year old Southern Baptists who act as if their virginity has been restored as if by some miracle.

Before I do any of this , I better find another place to live. Just in case, there’s a worst case scenario.

I want to say some things about this woman , to whom I was married from 1980 through 1995.

Did she mess my head up? Yes. I am certain I messed up hers

And almost every night I think of her.

There’s not anger , but loss, that we could not, despite a fifteen year marriage, connect.

And I‘m up at 4:30 AM , thinking of her.

This is the day Julius Caesar was assassinated by a clique of Roman Senators who feared he was becoming a tyrant

“Et tu Brute?” Shakespeare had all of his colleagues in on the hit. Creepy, befitting Modern American Gangsters.

I did not want to brush aside this day. We have to admit there’s murder in our hearts.

Even if today is Sunday.

He we are again Friday The Thirteenth. I’m not superstitious but this day always stands out for me.

Of course,when March tracks February in non-Leap Years, as it does in 2026, we get a nice “double dip”. Symmetry.

I get it. We are in a hurry and can’t be bothered. March carries a dreadful Ides. Julius Caesar, was assassinated on 15 March. Now we have our credit and debit card closure dates that seem important . More important to be aware of.

I ordered a pizza for delivery tonight. I simply did not want to go out after dark. There are college basketball games on television, March Madness. Always exciting to see an upset or hear about it.

The NCAA Women’s Softball gets real busy about now. The women are quite enthusiastic about their game. Always fun to watch.

I’m lethargic this year. Could be due to my hip replacement surgery. Slowing down has its own appeal, when the jonquils come and the pear trees,followed by April’s splendid azaleas and dogwood.

I can only be so poetic. I’m consumed with sexual desire. Seducing my wife, is not a sure thing. Her libido is a cool light .

Not much else to say.