Monthly Archives: March 2016

Story-As Yet Untitled Part 2

31 Thursday Mar 2016

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He had lived in this fashionable (read over-priced) neighborhood long enough to know the ins and outs of The Parking Game reflexively. The Green Signs read “2-HR Parking, Except by Permit  Mon-Fri 8 AM-6 PM”.  Here it was Friday Morning at 9:57, The Parking Enforcement People were lurking, ready to pounce, when they found her car, started it and motored off to the diner on Broad.

The diner was one of those places that was almost too “Home Town”. Politicians would show up there for grits, eggs, country ham and a photo-op, eager to show that they were of the Common Folk, despite being multimillionaires. But the food was good, the coffee was drinkable and the waitresses’ tattoos were interesting in their own right. As they walked from the car to the diner, he took her hand. She gripped his as if this little intimacy was completely natural.

Karen was working this morning. “You again?” she teased him  “Got your Rolaids under the counter all ready, Darlin’.” She pointed to an empty booth. And they sat down.

“What are you doing off on Friday?” she asked. “I know. You work from home and set your own hours.”

“Bingo. How about you?”

“I’m a nurse. This is a long weekend”

“Where do you work?”

“Orthopedics. Lots of old ladies with hip replacements. Spinal fusions. You know. And what do you do at home, when you claim to be working?”

“I’m a writer, but I’m only doing it until I can get a part-time job waiting tables.  I’m one of those lucky stiffs who has a trust fund. I keep quiet about the money. People think I’m a vet with bad PTSD, so bad I can’t work. I say nothing to stop them thinking that. I’m a vet all right, Marines, Iraq, Fallujah. But my head’s on pretty straight. I know plenty who aren’t so lucky. I volunteer at the veterans’ outreach.”

She looked at him, trying not to be too obvious in her approval. “This may be the last unmarried man out there not totally stuck on himself”, she thought.

For a few minutes, they discussed ordering the salt herring and decided to get them. That they were salty and fried were bad ass enough reasons to get them.  Both secretly rejoiced at being on the 10 Most Wanted List of The Food Police.

Suddenly, in the middle of the small talk, he grew quiet and looked her straight in the eyes. It was one of those scary moments when she knew what he was thinking and he, in turn,  was aware of her thoughts.

“This is nice.”

“Yeah, nice”

As they ate, she took off her Dansko clog and rubbed her foot on his shin, moving to his calf muscle. He smiled. He swore to himself that this was the sexiest thing any woman had ever done to him.

When they had finished and he had paid, they walked out. She reached in her purse, took out the Camel pack, looked at it as if that camel had told her to fuck off, and then tossed them in the trash barrel at the corner.  She looked at him and said. “Have you ever had one of those moments when you know you’ve had enough?”

To be continued

Story, as yet untitled

31 Thursday Mar 2016

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He wished he hadn’t drunk so much the night before. Puking is such a turn-off. But it happened.  C’est la vie. That sure sounds classier than “What the fuck”. The only redeeming aspects were that  a) she was as drunk as he was and b) his condo had two bathrooms.  Now, sitting at the dining room table,  his hand gripping his coffee cup like it contained gold, he simply stared at the ash tray beside him. There they were, the butts. Hers had her lipstick on them, that shade that drove him crazy. What woman smokes unfiltered Camels? She does.

He heard the shower running.

“Better get her a toothbrush.” Walking to the bathroom he found the stock of new toothbrushes in the vanity and put one on the counter. Beside it, he placed a cup of coffee, cream with sugar. He liked anticipating her needs, and what was this, their third date?  He worked quickly, the noise of the shower, muffling the minimal noise he made, the opacity of the shower curtain preventing her seeing him. Completing the little tasks, he went back to the table, sitting down just as  the shower turned off.  He heard her bustling about in the bedroom and was surprised when she crept up, kissing the back of his neck. He noticed her perfume first. When she came in to his view, she was wearing one of his white dress shirts she found hanging in his closet. Crisply starched, she had rolled the sleeves a couple of turns. The shirt was long enough on her to cover her butt.

“Thank you. That was sweet to bring me coffee, and just the way I like it. You remembered.  I thought you were too drunk to even remember your own name. And the toothbrush. Not too hard to figure out my mouth tasted like the bottom of a bird cage. Where did you sleep? I woke up alone in that big bed.”

“The  couch. Just because you were too drunk to drive home and you crashed here doesn’t entitle me to a freebie.”

“Your Mama raised you right. You aren’t a pig.”

“How about we move your car before they tow it, then go to that diner up on Broad for breakfast?

“Sounds like a plan.”

To be continued.

Dramas Managed-An Update.

30 Wednesday Mar 2016

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Last week’s little sagas continue.  They are like a miniseries or those old “cliff-hanger” serials from the movies, where our hero(oine) is rescued from one near-catastrophe at the start of an episode, only to be ensnared in another by that episode’s end.

As our story left off, Mrs Celibateorchaste? was on her way to the dentist and physician to see what the deal was with the lump on the side of her neck. The dentist ruled out a tooth issue, but suggested that, by the way this lump swells when eating, a salivary gland below the jaw has a stone blocking the duct.

Who knew salivary glands can develop stones? Apparently, NOT  medical doctors. Next came the visit to the medical doctor, who had no idea what the situation was, but if the dentist said it was a salivary gland stone, that sounded pretty good to him. He then referred her to the Ear Nose and Throat specialist. That appointment was yesterday and Dr Salivary Gland Specialist was NOT THERE!  Dr Everything But Salivary Glands did think it was a stone, scheduled a follow up with Dr Salivary Gland Specialist and a CT scan three weeks into the future.  Meanwhile, back at the neck, the lump seems to be shrinking. I suspect these stones pass through the duct, just as kidney stones pass, though much less painfully.  Good news is, most likely, no cancer, and not a big deal. Whew! Another bullet dodged.

In the world of insurance, the hospitalization/medical carrier was presented with an appeal of their claim denial, for the hospital charges related to the wisdom tooth extractions. Not only did the oral surgeon’s patient notes  clearly show the medical necessity of an outpatient hospital procedure under genral anaesthesia, but they also showed where his office called the medical insurance carrier and the peon who answered the call said no pre-certification was needed!  So Big Heartless/Mindless Insurance Company said one thing and acted in the exact opposite manner when the time came to fork over the dough.  Those of you who are surprised at this turn of events can gather inside the telephone booth in the lobby.

Insurance Drama  #2, the Long Term Disability Claim Still Unpaid, has the claim still unpaid, but they are going to check with my employer and I should see my money in a week.  Thank Heaven! I was getting worried that I would not be able to go yachting with the Vanderbilts and Astors in Newport this Summer.

Finally Asperger’s Bonehead #2 Son contacted me on Easter Sunday with this text message, “Happy Easter“.

Life does go on, like it or not.

Drama Management

24 Thursday Mar 2016

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My hunch is that we all go through  the same things. I don’t care how you label yourself. You Tough Guys/Bitches can hide behind your personas  for only so long before you break down too.  Our loved ones are our loved ones and we care. Big insensitive and indifferent corporate bureaucracies will always procrastinate in their favor.

Right now, I’m working on one biggie, two medium-sized and and one small nagging chronic dramas.  First, my wife has a hard knot on the right side of her neck, where fluid accumulates when she chews and swallows. I don’t know what the Hell it is but I don’t like it.

“Do you think it’s cancer?” she asked me, as if I were an oncologist. The little voice in the back of my head is saying, “I wouldn’t rule it out”, but I can’t say that. She sees a dentist this afternoon and a doctor tomorrow morning. The dentist can rule out a tooth issue. The doctor can maybe do a needle biopsy and get an answer, but I think he’s going to order a CT scan, which means more worrying. I lost a dear cousin to head and neck cancer four years ago. We shall see.

Dramas #2 and #3 involve those perennial nemeses, insurance companies. We have the health/medical insurer who is denying a claim, pending I show medical necessity for  wisdom tooth extractions done under general anesthesia in a hospital OR.   My oral surgeon, highly respected by his peers, deemed it necessary and I have his notes. I’m waiting for the policy exclusion clause from my dental insurance policy, a group plan to be furnished by my employer, since I don’t have a copy of the policy. Once I get the documentation, the appeal should work in my favor.  It just means the insurance carrier can hold on to the money a little longer, collect interest on the reserve and leave the hospital and anesthesiologist standing there with open palms, as if they have no expenses to pay of their own.

Drama #3 involves the long term disability carrier who hasn’t paid on my disability claim since it began in November. I had been unable to work for the last six months previous to back surgery because I had a rotator cuff repair and my back pain, necessitating the surgery made work impossible.  I can’t work now because I had a spinal fusion the week before Thanksgiving. This procedure has a high probability of failure if it doesn’t heal properly and completely, so I am not rushing back to work where any bend, lift or twist could send me back to where I was before the surgery took place.  Pretending to be a fabulously wealthy billionaire who can live off his investments is fun, but I live in the Real World in Anytown, USA.  I complained to the Bureau of Insurance yesterday and the insurance carrier promised they would deal with my claim today. We shall see.

Drama #4 is the continuing saga of Number Two Son, an Asperger’s syndrome patient, who hasn’t quite figured out that his father wants to know that he is safe, healthy and relatively happy. This would require a regular phone call or text, letting me know where he is and that he’s doing OK.  The Prophet Elijah could fly across the heavens in a chariot of fire before he calls.  So Easter is coming up, a family time and word from him would be nice.

I’m praying my wife’s neck knot is no biggie, the insurance companies will pay their respective claims and my son will call or text or visit.

Stay tuned.

 

Sweating On An (Almost) Spring Day.

10 Thursday Mar 2016

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Today has been one of those days I wouldn’t trade for all the fireworks on the Fourth of July or all the hot dogs at a Labor Day picnic. Here it is, the 9th of March and I gave up checking on how warm it was after I walked outside barefoot at 8:00 AM to fetch the newspaper. It felt just fine.

So the day found me a partial sluggard, tempted to explore my concupiscence, but fully engaged with the glorious experience of being alive and healthy. There are pleasures that don’t get recognition; fresh strawberries for one, kefir, or a  peeled navel orange, sectioned, ready to be savored. What I long for the most is a woman sufficiently indolent to enjoy these delights with me.

There is one activity for which no partner can amplify the pleasure. That is my daily power walk. I stepped off around 4:03, beginning my ten circuit, four mile walk. The groundskeepers had put down hard wood mulch so the walk was filled with that fecund and earthy smell. The pine trees had sap that was running and the piney scent made its presence known too.  I saw my neighbors and my neighbors’ dogs. Sometimes I recognize my neighbors by their dogs on the other end of the leash.

After I finished my first lap, I asked myself if I was having fun. It didn’t feel like fun. It felt like air entering my lungs at a swift rate. and legs straining and stretching with every stride.  Self decided to speak up and give his two cents about the meaning of pleasure.

It doesn’t feel like fun now”, Self says.

“Wait till we’re done, Self, and we can see what we did.”

Self finally agrees to schlep along, promising to be unobtrusive, checking out the women, in case I forget.  Almost Spring means all women are beautiful. We are all attached to the glorious colors that await us, yellow daffodils, and forsythia, purple croci, red tulips, the marvelous pink of quince, and the  burgeoning extravaganza  that are the azaleas. Shucks. I left out the dogwood and the redbud.

Almost Spring has me picking up the pace, to see if I can average below 14 minutes for a mile, maybe hit 13 minutes a mile. When the walk is over, my stopwatch say 52:41.23, an average of 13 min. 10.25 sec per mile, a personal record.

Almost Spring has me motivated to move that much faster, to  feel the breeze blowing on my sweaty body, cooling it. Almost Spring is about that last lap and the cold water waiting in the kitchen. It is a shower , water pouring on my naked body, the smell of peppermint soup, tea tree oil shampoo, and water evaporating  on my naked skin before I  can dry it off with the towel. Almost Spring is taking my time getting dressed, wishing a lover could dawdle and lallygag with me, a lover thrilled to be naked with me,  open to  the dalliance of lust and the call and response of desire.

The Passion of Bertha, Wife of Ed.

07 Monday Mar 2016

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The movie Pleasantville was about two modern teenagers who found themselves transported into a 1950’s sitcom. This is a derivative fantasy, because I have this thing for a certain sidekick of a daffy redhead sitcom star..

I  noticed her the first day I moved into the building. When I knocked on her door to get the keys, she was talking to her friend, the redhead.  Bertha gave me a big smile, handed me the keys, and said  “I’ll come by later to walk through the unit with you. I want you to be happy here.”  The emphasis was on happy.

“And I want to be a tenant that you’re satisfied with,” I answered, emphasis on satisfied.

Good to her word, she came up an hour later, The movers had yet to arrive and we walked through, noting a few plaster cracks, a slow drain, nothing major.

” Somebody needs to tend to that crack.”

“That’s not the only crack that needs attention,”  she casually remarked. I was left wondering about the obvious double entendre, thinking no woman is that obvious unless….

As a matter of course, her husband Ed came up, spackled the cracks, and offered to paint the apartment with a shade of ugly green interior paint, of said paint I suspect he bought massive quantities at a war surplus auction.  The color was both jarringly familiar and deserved to be forgotten.

“Uh, Ed, how about I pick my own color. I’ll even paint the place myself and to top it off, I will buy the paint myself.”  He could not have been happier had I told him the winner of the next race at Hialeah. 

That Saturday, I found myself, roller in hand, painting the apartment a shade of off white, that was easy on the eyes, gave a sense of depth,  and would be a suitable background for the paintings I planned on buying from aspiring, but hungry artists in Greenwich Village.

Around two, with the Metropolitan Opera broadcasting  Carmen  on the radio, I heard a knock on the door. Bertha was here to check things out. She wore perfume today, Chanel No. 5, and her makeup was exquisite, the lipstick a shade of red that Marilyn would envy.

“Nice job. Looks like you can handle your chores  quite, uh, satisfactorily.”

“I’m quite the handy guy.  Look, I was about ready to take a break. There’s some pop in the fridge. Let me clean my hands.”

“I’ll get the drinks.”

Minutes later, she was sitting on the couch, soft drink in hand. I noticed the top two buttons of her shirtwaist were unbuttoned.  I sat in the armchair near her, staring at her cleavage, wishing for the X-ray vision, only Superman possessed . Knowing then and there that her rather overt seduction had worked, I moved to the couch, took the pop bottle from her hand, placed it on the  end table. 

“Ed’s at the hockey game at the Garden. He’ll be gone a while. Rangers vs. Red Wings. He’s a big fan of Gordie Howe.”

“Well I’m a big fan of you. and I was wondering if you were wearing that girdle you had on the first time you were here.”

“Time to find out.”

I took her head in my hands, guided her lips to mine and kissed  her long and deep. My hands then caressed her, found their way to that sweet ass. Lifting the skirt, I found neither girdle, nor panties, for that matter. Somebody came prepared to play.

I reached in my pocket, pulled out a rubber, tore open the package and before I could do another thing, she volunteered to help. Placing the rubber in her mouth, she put the rubber on with lips. The last time I had help like that,  was in Tijuana, fresh from boot camp, and ready to prove to Lourdes, who claimed to be the cleanest whore in Mexico, what kind a swordsman an eighteen year-old Marine could be.

Bertha approached fellatio like a true connoisseur  of cock.  It was a lost-in-the-moment blow job, where only our lust for a fuck prevented a climax, then and there. 

Always a firm believer in reciprocity, I slowly began licking that beautiful vagina offered for my delectation. I took my time, enjoying her smell, her wetness, her  cunt folds, her hard clit, letting her tell me when she wanted more. Grabbing my cock she guided it inside her. I held her close at first, then shifted to put her legs on my shoulders, driving in deep. She would grind into me after every one of my thrusts.

I couldn’t tell which of us came first. I didn’t care.  Afterwards, we just lay still. I slowly stroked her hair, kissed her lips.

“Oh my God, the time!” she cried.  Somebody is expecting a roast tonight and the meat needs to go in the oven.

She bolted up, smoothed her skirt, straightened the seams of her stockings, fixed her hair.

And she was gone.  For a little while anyway.