I visited Richmond’s Virginia Museum of Fine Arts yesterday and came upon this magnificent Tiffany Stained Glass Triptych, taken from the old All Saints Episcopal Church. It had been stored in a basement somewhere until the museum purchased it, and put it on display. Truly a lovely piece.
Mango is mystery
Held in hand
Dark green deep red variegated pigmented leathery fructis skin,
that the shiny peeler flays
to offer spicy mango smell, redolent in its yellow-orange flesh.
Knife in longitudinal laceration seeks that nonconforming seed
Unlike cross-cut five-point apple constellation
Spherical perfection in cherry stones.
Mango bears its enigmatic lozenge of life.
Art is about increasing the likelihood of getting laid.
I’ve been working on a poem. No rhyming, free verse, not about sex directly, but erotic in its own way. A poem works itself out of my head and my heart.
As I lay in bed this morning, I listened to the birds singing and enjoyed the absence of other sound.
Serenity isn’t hard to come by for me. It does require me to be still though.
I just read a novel, Nightwood by Djuna Barnes. I cannot be too enthusiastic in praising this book. There is a powerful prose rhythm in Barnes’ writing. It is a compelling story, a telling, from one perspective, of a dysfunctional relationship. The facts from which the fiction derives is Barnes’ love affair with the artist Thelma Wood. The relationship was characterized by alcoholism, sexual infidelity, and abandonment. Wood would disappear for days at a time, only to return with no explanation for her absence. While Barnes was lesbian, Wood was bisexual,but with a preference for women.
That the characters are lesbian is what, I suppose, makes this a “lesbian” novel. But wait. If I can read this book, empathize with the plight and pain of Nora (Barnes’ character in the story), and identify with this recounting of human experience, just how “lesbian” is it? It isn’t written in lesbian secret code, if there is any such thing. That phenomenon of human experience makes it possible for people of varying backgrounds to understand and relate to each other, if they make the effort. I had a similar experience reading Samuel Steward’s Parisian Lives, an openly gay book about homosexual life in Paris in the thirties and forties. Again, here I am relating to these men, liking them, hoping they will find something akin to happiness.
If I qualify and select literature on the basis of descriptors, what a narrow world I would be living in. Gerard Manley Hopkins was a Jesuit priest. If I didn’t care much for Catholics, not reading him would be my great loss. And so it goes for so many writers.
There are two words when used together can strike fear in the heart of any aspiring cook. Those two words are “Pie Crust”. I had made crusts before and I have always found their preparation to be a daunting experience. My concern is that I will work the dough too much and the crust will be rubbery. This particular crust from The Joy of Cooking is a pate’ brisee, formulated to work with a quiche Lorraine, my dinner choice for last Thursday night. The recipe calls that I work flour into a chilled stick of butter and 3 tablespoons of lard, add water til a dough forms and let it rest chilled for 2 hours. All went well, until I started rolling out the chilled dough. Then my life became filled with questioning and self-doubt. Am I handling it too much? Bearing in mind that the chilled dough is only slightly more pliant than a radial tire, I begin rolling away ever so carefully with the rolling pin. It seemed to be getting thinner and thinner and pretty soon it fit inside the pie plate. It looks like I am good to go. I put in the bacon, then the cheese, and finally the milk/cream-egg mixture. Into the oven it goes and pretty soon, Bob’s your Uncle, a lovely quiche all golden brown, is ready for our enjoyment. It turned out quite tasty. Now here’s the irony. The yummy, custard-like, cheesy quiche more than concealed whatever shortcomings the crust may have had. It was certainly flaky, if you scraped off the filling to savor the crust. Then again, only a nosy mother-in-law of a newly-wed bride from a Fifties sitcom would be so anal as to do that.
Pie Crust Verdict: Pass.
Some of you may wonder about the title of this blog Celibate or Chaste?. It refers to the fact that my marriage has been without a sexual component for nearly 13 years. Crazy. During this time, my adult son moved back in with us for 2 years; my younger son finished high school; we have lost parents and other dear family members; I’ve undergone 2 major orthopedic surgeries; she has had lithotripsy for kidney stones; I’ve celebrated 21 years of sobriety. We both entered the Roman Catholic Church. In other words, life went by us.
What I have been is a sneaky little bastard who never quite got the knack of communicating how and what I feel to the person who loves me the most. Until today. I told her about my sexual frustration. The miracle of this communication breakthrough was finding a context for communication that 1) would not blame her and 2) show a correlation between my frustration and my behavior. That miracle occurred earlier this week. I looked at a Facebook post that I found insulting and went ballistic. The angry part of my personality is an aspect she is more than familiar with and quite frightened by. So when I said to myself, “This anger is your sexual frustration that you have repressed all these years.”, I knew I had an opening and a context.
This morning, I shared this rather large nugget about me with her. And a world opened up. She put her head on my shoulder and just rested a bit. That felt great.
Now I know life and our marriage will not become rainbows, lollipops, puppies and balloons by this. It might not turn into a passionate nonstop sex romp, but I won’t rule it out. But it is out there, the truth. One good part is, I don’t have to get angry at total strangers or FB nonsense to express my frustration. That frustration’s grip over me has also disappeared. For now at least.
I have used this blog to share who I am with you wonderful people. I have read your stories. In some respects, we are different, but at our cores we are all human. Thanks guys.
Tuesday, here in Richmond, we had a cold snap. We were all settled in and excited about Spring; birds singing, flowers blooming, the smell of freshly cut grass in the air. Then Mom Nature offered her two cents about our vernal reverie. It got cold again and once more it was Soup Weather.
With an early Easter, I still had a recipe that I had meant to use during Lent but had not had an opportunity to fix. It was for Manhattan style clam chowder, the tomato-based type. Since Mrs CelibateorChaste? is lactose intolerant, she doesn’t enjoy the milk-base New England style. I am Bisoupual , can go both ways, and went Manhattan style for her. I had downloaded a pretty good recipe from the Betty Crocker website and started the prep. Nothing goes exactly to plan when I cook, and by the time I finished the preparation, I had doubled the recipe. My trip to the store for missing ingredients yielded the fresh parsley which made the chowder.
Chowder simmering away, I took my walk. Upon finishing the walk, I covered the azaleas to protect them from the freeze. I was all settled in when Mrs CorC? came home from work. We both enjoyed a fine and simple mid-week supper, more than compensating for the inconvenience of the untimely cold spell.
In the making of soup, stew or chowder, bountiful leftovers are a given. Here is where the community piece comes in. Soup is meant to be shared! Running down my list of likely beneficiaries, I decided my stepmother Dorothy would be the recipient. She is 90, and in no way feeble, but she has lived alone since Daddy died in 2011. So when I dropped by the next day to take her to the YMCA for her exercise class, I brought the soup. I felt good sharing it. I hope she liked it. Simple Gifts.
Years ago, one Saturday, my ex-wife’s friend came down from the DC suburbs. They very tearfully talked for a couple of hours. My ex reported the gist of the conversation, about how the friend’s husband was into kink, but she wasn’t. The handcuffs during sex did not excite her.
I had visited their house a couple of times. What struck me as odd was the comprehensive and well-maintained collection of Playboy magazines. They were on shelving, sorted by year, in the basement. The husband was paunchy with skinny arms and a goatee. Really creepy looking, like he was sporting this Dominant Look that didn’t really suit him.
The really weird thing was all this talk about handcuffs and rough sex got my ex totally turned on. She was hot; we went to bed in the middle of the afternoon. She begged me for anal intercourse and I complied. It was a very passionate, unforgettable encounter. And, yes, she did have an orgasm.
I was dumb then. I didn’t really talk with her at length about this whole experience. Was there a need she wanted fulfilled? I didn’t really see this as an opening to explore her sexuality in a way that would enrich our marriage. I was selfish and fearful of change. There is no doubt that these are two of the reasons why she became an “ex-wife”.
The years went by. We had been divorced over twenty years when she died of cancer last Fall. Our incomplete relationship went to the grave, or in this case, the crematorium. And I deeply regret that incompletion.
The stroll back to the car was filled with chit-chat of the beauty of Spring, the food at the diner, and whether the person in the booth next to them with the heavy makeup in the miniskirt was a cross-dresser or not. They both agreed yes. The Adam’s apple was the giveaway, although she wished that person would come do her make-up, just once.
“I wanna see if it works, if more guys would come on to me.”
“Let’s see whether you need more guys, OK?”
“Are you auditioning for Boy Friend?” she asked, half-teasing.
“Yes I am”.
“Well I guess it’s time for the Elimination Round,” she announced, as they arrived at her car. “Get in.”
He could hardly believe he was ever this excited about any other woman as he was about her. He climbed in the passenger seat, clicked the seat belt, wondering where they would go. A half hour later, the car rolled into her driveway. She turned off the engine.
“We’re here,”. They casually walked to the front steps; she opened the door; they walked in.
“Didn’t see cars in the neighbors’ driveways. Hope they’re at work. Don’t want to be known as the neighborhood slut, bringing men home at high noon.”
‘Wouldn’t be prudent”.
As soon as the door closed, he took her in his arms, and kissed her the way he had wanted to since the morning. His tongue and her’s were quickly probing, dueling, joining, as his hands stroked her back. She was still wearing his white shirt and he felt no bra closure when he caressed her back.. His hands moved further down, slipped in the back of her jeans. No panties either. His erection got even harder at the realization she was going “commando”.
“Undress. I want you naked,” she commanded. He complied. The Brooks Brothers blue oxford button-down went first, then the wife-beater, (although she wouldn’t have minded if that stayed), then the khakis fell in a heap at his ankles. He took his Weejuns off to make getting the trousers completely off that much easier. No socks, she noticed.
“Got me a Grade A Preppie White Boy!” she exclaimed. “Pulling those boxers off will be my pleasure.” Her hands jerked them down in one motion and as they fell, his cock sprang out.
As he reached to unbutton her shirt, she stopped him.
“What’s your hurry?” She began kissing his body slowly, while he stood there. Her mouth and her hands went everywhere, everywhere except to his erection, which she very deliberately ignored. Her fingers trace the crack of his ass, one probing just a bit, to see if he liked to have his asshole teased. At the slight push to his anus, she felt his cock jerk. He smiled. She smiled.
She finally grabbed his penis and led him to the bedroom by it.
“Lie down. On your back.” pointing to her bed. It was then that she unbuttoned the oversized white shirt, revealing her tits. Then she wiggled out of her jeans, pushing them over her hips and stepping out of them.
From the foot of the bed, she crawled to him, til her pussy was by his face. Straddling his head with her thighs , he inhaled her odor.
“I see you like to sniff cunt.” he nodded, showing astonishment at her use of the “C”-word.
“You see, women have cunts. Silly girls and cock teasers have pussies. Now let’s see if you can use that tongue for anything better than talking or licking ice cream cones. Oh. and take your time. Fucking is not a timed competition”.
He never thought it possible to lose himself in cunt, but he did. He gave up every idea he ever had about cunnilingus. His standard Fucking Formula suddenly left his repertoire. Her labia became his Universe and he traced them with his tongue; she lifted his head to bring it to her clit and he worshiped it lazily, picking up the tempo of his licking only when her breathing increased. He sensed her crisis coming.
She cried out, “Don’t you dare stop!” and he licked and sucked on as wave after wave of her orgasms swept her.
As he felt her relax, he made his move, lifting her off of him, turning her onto her hands and knees and mounting her, his penis filling her hungry cunt, and as he thrust, he slapped her ass, the stings eliciting moans. As he felt his orgasm approach, her spread her ass cheeks, rubbed a gob of spit on her asshole and inserted a finger, probing as his cock shot his hot semen up her vagina.
They collapsed in a heap.
“Guess you don’t need help with your makeup from Princess I-Wonder.”
“Guess not. Let’s get under the covers. I’m cold.”