It has all become just too crazy. I am going on sabbatical. You won’t be hearing from me for a while.
It has all become just too crazy. I am going on sabbatical. You won’t be hearing from me for a while.
I have had both my medical appointments. The good news is that my back has not deteriorated since the surgery three years ago. The not-so-good news is I have arthritis in my left hip. The calcium deposit in the socket is clearly visible. That’s actually good news because it tells me why I have pain in my left hip.The best course of action and plan for treatment is back to physical therapy. I am happy about this too. PT has brought good results in the past.
Today’s internist visit was uneventful, but the blood work isn’t back. I’m not particularly worried, however. I received a pneumonia vaccination today. That has me feeling a little unwell, but I often respond to vaccinations in this way.
J and I had lunch at one of our favorite restaurants. We like the food and the wait staff. Since I wasn’t feeling well, J took me hope whilst she went shopping. I lay down for a while.
I’m reading a book about the John F. Kennedy assassination, The Man Who Killed Kennedy. The Case Against LBJ. by Roger Stone and Mike Colapietro. (Skyhorse Publishing, 2013). For those of you who weren’t around fifty years ago, LBJ refers to President Lyndon Baines Johnson, Kennedy’s successor.
The Kennedy assassination is an American obsession; The Warren Report, (the “official” explanation) has had sceptics ever since its publication. Time has only added more disbelievers to their ranks. Nearly all of the popular theories disputing the Warren Commission absolve Lee Harvey Oswald of any guilt in the killing and attribute the murder to a joint venture of organized crime and the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA).
Both organizations had powerful motives to kill The President, such as the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961. Kennedy refused to aid the CIA sponsored Anti-Castro rebels. Organized crime felt that, while they aided the election of JFK, particularly in Chicago, they felt betrayed when Attorney General Robert Kennedy (JFK’s brother) began a vigorous campaign against the Mob. Johnson figures into the story because of a long history of corruption. Two scandals involving him were about to break in the media at the time of the assassination. Many of these legends all sound too outlandish to be believed, but much of what supports the conspiracy “theories” is fact.
The legacy of the assassination remains with us today. The idea of a “deep state” working outside of the governing political party(ies) are in the back story of the JFK assassination. The CIA had been functioning with little oversight, from any branch of government, since it’s creation in the late 1940’s, At the time of the JFK murder, we saw the FBI engaged in domestic intelligence gathering on any American politician or public figure whom its Director, J Edgar Hoover, did not like. The close relationship between Hoover and Johnson fostered a quid pro quo that allowed Hoover to stay in power after the mandatory retirement age, whole Hoover fed Johnson with material for political blackmail.
Within eighteen months of the Kennedy assassination came the introduction of American ground troops into Vietnam. LBJ’s judgment about the war was clouded by a corrupt relationship with defense contractors, who profited from the war (and, by implication, gave Johnson kickbacks). It was an ugly era in American History,
I amazed even myself with that spate of writing Saturday. The S/M themed story is coming along nicely in head. But, gosh darn it, you gotta put the story up on the blog.
What’s got my attention of late are my Doctors’ appointment, orthopedic surgeon Tuesday, internist Wednesday. My big concern is my back. It has been three years since the fusion, and possibly my spine has deteriorated further. I’m thinking physical therapy is all that’s needed, at least I hope that’s all.
I’ve had a bit of pain the past few days, what I call persistently nagging, rather than sharp. I’ve been using my cane and I’ve had a few scares that I might tip over. Balance issues are at the heart of it.
My sexuality is reawakening and I feel especially connected to J, my wife. Time to be assertive. There is an old AA saying, “A person is responsible for the effort, not the outcome.”
So that’s about it.
This will be short. I’m tired. In so many ways. I sat down and wrote some frankly erotic writing, using my imagination. It felt dann good to write, to create characters, to fantasize and to create a past that didn’t happen. But might have. I couldn’t bring myself to go upstairs, and try to sleep. I wonder when I last took Ibuprofen, but think a couple more now won’t hurt.
The back hurts, and causes the shoulder to hurt too. I think about the surgery recovery from three years ago and feel nostalgic about the whole time.
It’s late. I have new readers. I love you all for stopping by. Thanks.
When you are young and don’t know any better and people are just people, you look for clues to make sense out of the world. Your parents and grandparents, aunts uncles, neighbors are older and bigger than you, so they must know something and you don’t know if it’s bad or good , what they do, they just do it and nobody says they can’t.
Auntie had this friend, Wilsie, she called her, short for Wilhelmina, named after a Dutch queen, of all people. She was a good tennis player and archer. She would smoke a Havana cigar from time to time and drank her bourbon neat. Auntie would smile a lot when she came around. Sometimes they would travel, usually with a “Church” group. The Women’s Missionary Guild. The Guild didn’t know about Wilsie’s cigars and bourbon. The ladies in The Guild went to Chicago or Savannah or to Cypress Gardens to watch the water skiers. There must have been a lot of heathen water skiers because they went there often.
Then one day, I was over Auntie’s house to clean her swimming pool, and learn from Auntie how to use the cotton candy machine she bought to keep my younger cousins entertained when they came on the Fourth of July. What I remember is that it was hot. Wilsie had come over, made some “lemonade” that I couldn’t have, but she and Auntie seemed to enjoy. A lot. They placated my sugar lust with a bottle of Nehi Strawberry soda pop and a Nutty Buddy they got from the ice cream man when he came by in his truck, clanging the bell like it was Doomsday,
So they were sipping the “lemonade”, sitting on the back porch, I was sitting on the top step, looking up at them. I noticed Auntie ran her foot along Wilsie’s shinbone. And Wilsie didn’t seem to mind. And then Wilsie leaned in and kissed Auntie, kinda like the way Daddy did to Mama when he thought we kids weren’t looking.
“Bobbie,” Auntie said, “How about walking down to the drug store, get some calamine lotion and buy yourself a Snickers with the change.”
Nobody had poison oak or mosquito bites, so I wondered why she needed calamine lotion, but having a Snickers all to my self, put my curiosity to sleep, at least for a while.
Walking back, it was getting hotter, and my Snickers was melting and since I wanted to save it anyway, I walked up the back steps to the kitchen, was ready to just let the screen door slam behind me, but I didn’t. When I walked into the kitchen something told me to keep quiet. I put the candy bar in the ice box and heard over the whirr of the fans, some soft, moany sort of noises. I saw that Auntie’s bedroom door was almost completely open, because it was so hot and her fan was on too. It must have been hot, ’cause she was naked and Wilsie was too. They were rubbing up against each other and moaning louder and louder, I just wondered how they were going to cool off doing that.
It was then I knew I better look away, creep on back to the porch and act like noting happened. After a while, they came out dressed and “freshened” up. And that day I learned just a little bit more how grown-ups were.
We knew what we were. I was the New and know-it-all college grad, all eager and ready, with the nuclear-powered dick,and twenty-five years her junior. She was the widow, the grandmother with the adorable grands, the water aerobics teacher. We played the way we thought we wanted to play and how we thought we should be playing. And the relationship broke, faster than a North Korean condom.
After that first break-up, when the game was over, the hearts gone hollow and the tears cried out, she went back to her usual things, filling her days with a sterling silver respectability.
I returned, like Odysseus to Ithaca, to the girl friend who didn’t get me, the job that left me empty, the booze and the weed. It didn’t take long for the girl friend to stop looking for a sparkle in my hollow eyes. The baby she wanted and the stable home wasn’t going to come from me. My job traded my energy and what brains I had left for money.. Lots of energy sucked out, lots of money pumped in.
Direct deposit saved me from the street. For I drank alone, and automatic bill pay kept the lights on and mortgage paid. But in the end, after I recycled all the wine bottles and smoked the last reefer, the red sign in my head flashed GAME OVER. I walked down the steps to the church basement, to join the other burned out husks, ready to have some life creep back in.
After a while, the smiling came a little easier, food started to taste good again, I went back to the pool to feel my body move in the water.
I didn’t expect to find Marta there. I should have known. I saw her finishing up her class, filled with ladies old enough to be her sisters, yet they thought she was young enough to be their daughter. She did not one thing, nor said not one word, to dispel the misconception.
“Well, Dean, I didn’t expect to see you here”
“You know you’d swim a lot faster if you lost that gut.”
I blushed. “Guess it’s time to find a personal trainer. Know any good ones?”
“You’re looking at one. If you’re serious, meet me at my house at 6:30. AM. that is. ”
I was there the next day.
She had owned me before. Treated me like a puppy dog, or a pony, a slave in perpetual celibacy, whatever her whim, whatever she thought a Mistress was supposed to do, derived from whatever trashy porn novel, or blog, or pervert social media site she could find. The emphasis was on doing something, whatever. Pegging me with that horse cock of a dildo in that leather harness, perpetual foot worship to the brink of boredom, pony training til my gaits were perfect.
Finally one night, she looked at me, tears in her eyes and declared, “This isn’t me.”
I knew. The power she had, she loved. The service I gave pleased her. It flattered her that a man-slave could lick her cunt with eagerness and consummate skill, with no reciprocity expected in return. But she felt that Mistress was not an expression of who she was deep down, but a job. The cunt-licking was merely the wage earned.
Mistress-slave was nothing more than a mutually boring game. So that night, I unbuckled the dog collar she had once buckled around my neck, put my clothes back on and walked out the door. My service was my gift and it was no longer wanted. Perhaps she never knew what it meant to receive it, nor did she appreciate its value.
My freedom lives in my illusion.
Marta had me write this one hundred times, in my finest cursive, everyday for a week, every day at four AM, in only the light afforded by the LED lamp. This was my first daily gesture to her power over me and my service to her. Eventually I needed very little light to do this task.
Each night, before I went to bed in my cell, she placed a pen, filled with the color of ink she chose, to symbolize some facet of my service for that day, red for passionate reckless enthusiasm, black for total completeness, green for renewal of passion gone stale. The spectrum of colors was hardly tested at all.
My illusion, of course, is that I am not a slave, but a free man. I can leave her service at any time. My cell is not locked. My clothes, neatly displayed on a chair valet, are ready to be put on. My car keys, wallet, cell phone are all ready to be taken up. My car is in the driveway, gas tank full, battery charged. My money is in my bank account, the investment portfolio produces the dividend checks every month.
My freedom lies in serving Her. Slavery exists in the world I fled; where I earned my wealth from every client I dutifully served, writing the software they needed to oblige their customers to need them. How I hated the lost sleep, the swill I ate from burger joints and chili parlors, the power suits and shiny shoes, the cell phone that symbolized my thralldom.
My freedom comes from playing her game her way, by her rules, in her house. The rewards are her smile, a caress well earned, an orgasm she draws out of me, as I draw one from her.
By whatever means she chooses.
Here’s a thought. Female breasts are there to feed babies.
Yeah I know, we (men, mostly) have put more significance into breasts other than their biological purpose. Because of their purpose, they help define femininity. That’s not a bad thing.
Part of our dystopic thinking has us alienate ourselves from the natural world, such as the purposes of our physical bodies. We exist, in part, in no way solely and totally, to survive and perpetuate our species and our cultures and communities. It follows that men and women have roles that the sexes dictate. Now I know women can do more than bear children and breast-feed. I know that men can do more than donate sperm in the facilitation of conception. I also know that families are the basic social unit and exist in order that children may survive and flourish.
Oddly enough, I feel that I have to apologize for the way things are, that I must acknowledge the validity of every variant from that “traditional” norm. Now I know that same sex partners are doing as good a job of raising children as heterosexual couples. But ultimately there has to be a point of departure. Making every bond and friendship, the equivalent of a family, no matter how valuable or tenuous they may be, distorts and devalues the family. They are, ultimately, artificial constructs. Families exist because individual identities become subservient to the larger paradigm of family. husband/wife, father/mother.
This is not to discount our individuality, our own uniqueness as persons. But there is a place and a time for the ego to submerge.
I fancy you on the bed, head down cradled in your arms,
Your buttocks presented to my touch and gaze.
Open. Vulnerable. Ready.
I take the vinyl gloves, fit them on my hands, the tightness another skin.
The lube squirts out and I warm it in my palms. Wet fingers find your labia, as I stroke softly, gently, then a bit more urgent, turning my need to touch.
Fingers fill you now, the rhythm, my beating heart, my need for the primal home of you.
I spread your buttocks with my free hand, your anus, the deeper secret still. My lips move to you to kiss that third mouth, my tongue pushing , licking, while my hand works in your cunt.
This night. This bed.
I take you as I make my need my gift.