It is blustery today. I am thinking about flying kites. I first flew kites with my Dad and my Uncle Ed at Chimborazo Park in Church Hill. It was the site of the largest military hospital in the world during the time of the American Civil War.

We bought Hi-Flier kites. They were paper and they were cheap. They were tricky to fly, so we needed people like my Dad and Uncle to show us how to get them airborne. They had patience and experience and we did not.

It never occurred to us that Daddy and Ed had been to Hell and back and that, to them, flying kites with your children was one of the great joys of life. Maybe that’s why Dad flew kites at the beach with his grandchildren thirty years later.

The composer Rossini ( William Tell Overture) was born on 29 February 1792. He was a prolific genius. And I always think of him today.

I watched a documentary on the Romanov Dynasty on Star Media, a Russian media company that posts on You Tube. Important takeaway: We don’tunderstand a damn thing about Russia, nor do we really want to understand them. Their purpose is to be the bogeyman for American political demagogues of any and all persuasions.

Having completed that rant, I can report I am slightly tired. My brother came by to pick a cabinet and a television he might be able to fix.

It took me 63 years to fully understand that I’m not stupid. I spent a lot of time in school terrified over one thing or another, or wondering whether people liked me or not. Those fears followed me into the workplace and my marriages. It’s only been in the last few years, perhaps months, that I have owned up to this nonsense in my head.

Now I should want to be going to Church, but I’m tired. I will probably be tired tomorrow too. But J wants to go this evening. I will go to be with her.

Over, for now.

I have been awake about two hours. The weather is cold again around 32°F (0°C). I have done some indifferent trainspotting, watching #98 NB Silver Meteor #86 Northeast Rail Service pass through and stop in Ashland, respectively, on the way to Washington and New York. I think I may have overreacted in postponing our trip to New York, over COVID-19 concerns but it is still a little early to tell.

Reimplementing the weight loss and maintenance techniques of WW© are coming along far easier than I imagined. It is just a matter of time. Swimming resumes today for me. And some housekeeping will round out my activities.

J is off today. I might just go back to bed.

I avoided WW© for about ten months, as if it were toxic for me. I put weight on and didn’t really care. I felt like I dodged bullets at my last physical, specifically around diabetes. Quite frankly, I isolated myself intentionally from WW©. I would do it from other things,like swimming.

Today I finally returned and am getting back at it. My weight is 207.

The more I think about the issues of food and why I eat, the sadder I feel. It’s a toxic relationship. It is also tied in with my sex and intimacy issues. I will stop there.

I flunked piety yesterday. I did not go to Mass, to have ashes imposed upon my forehead. I find Lent to be a valuable experience. I use it to deepen my faith. I think of the temptations of Christ in the Wilderness. Surrender to the Will of God is the challenge of Lent. But the pomposity of the ashes is filled with emptiness. Where are the transformations of the heart?

Yesterday I picked up a Spring-themed wreath, made by my friend Es. Then I went to AA, visited S, my sponsee. When I returned home, I was tired. I needed sleep. I had a nap.

The day was marked by pots of coffee, a nap, half-hearted attempts to do something. We ended up going to Bone Fish Grill for dinner. I had a tuna steak.

Returning home, I frittered more time away, until I finally went to bed around 10:30. I slept about two hours until body pain awakened me. I came downstairs,, made a pot of coffee, but drank very little of it. I fell asleep in my chair and awoke during a documentary about the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. I will go back to bed after I post this.

I listen to J.S. Bach’s St Matthew. Passion during Lent. It is my private act. The musical expression of the drama and suffering of The Crucifixion always sets me to thinking. We use art to express the very dark aspects of the human experience That lesson is not readily grasped.

I can’t stay awake any longer.

Later, dear readers.

The corona virus (COVID19) is no joke, if the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and the World Health Organization (WHO) are to be believed. The epidemiologists aren’t even sure how this virus is transmitted from one person (host) to another. Could be by breathing, could be by simple human contact. They do know a carrier can transmit the virus (pathogen) before that carrier even knows that they are sick.

So, with that in mind, J and I are hoping that some clarification as to means of transmission , what precautions are necessary, etc., are known before we have our Fabulous New York Adventure. So we rescheduled the trip to mid-September. By then, we should have some answers.

Here I am, being cautious. Who’d have thunk it?

Well, I had not planned my day to be like this. I had. a good day, filled with completed tasks, home cooking,educating myself about coronavirus. Scary stuff that virus.

I fixed black beans, rice, Cuban-style slow cooker roast pork, and sautéd Brussels sprouts, all from scratch. Well almost all. I use a store bought mojo criollo, or marinade. The one I use is from a South Florida restaurant La Lechenera. The marinade is an orange juice base with spices (think garlic).

We managed to donate a bunch of computer flat screen monitors, along with children’s board games, computer parts, purses to the local thrift shop.

Now I’m sitting here, reveling in my accomplishnents, listening to the rain. And I am tired. Night all.

I go up a little earlier, just to be with J. I fall asleep with the I Love Lucy DVD on. I realize Lucy, et. al. have been in my life for as long as I can remember. That is pretty incredible.

But the pattern is that I fall asleep earlier. I waken after a similar interval, two or three hours, with body pain and over-heated from central heating.

Going up earlier sends J the message that i want to be a with her. Monday night brings the c challenge of feigning interest in The Bachelor. I am just not that good an actor. We shall see what happens..

NSFW. Frank Sexual Situation.

Erotic Short Fiction. Mature Adults

It had been a while since they were together. Too long maybe. There were reasons, some bad, some good, mostly centered around spouses, business partners, children, work.

But the board had been cleared. Death, divorce, graduation, retirement took care of that. And the internet works wonders when reuniting is the matter at hand.

They met at a bed and breakfast overlooking the harbor of a New England fishing village. Except nobody fished from that harbor anymore. The tech millionaires’ yachts were now moored in the harbor. Without doubt, they were beautiful boats, sloops, schooners, yawls. And so, they bobbed in the water soullessly, million dollar diversions that they were.

Scruff recognized Taff the minute he saw her, even after the years apart. She had aged as he had.

Then he said something that surprised even him.

“I want you. Now. Here is the room key. Go up. I will meet you in fifteen minutes. I will bring your bag up. I want to see you naked on the bed when I open the door.”

Taff was surprised. Ready to walk out. Yet, what the Hell. They’d had sex before, years ago, during the Carter Administration, just as a point of reference. He was married. She was married. She was drunk. He was too. And a fuck to spite her cheating low life husband seemed like a good idea. Scruff’s story was just as sordid, with a wife who needed cover back in the day, when being a lesbian in the suburbs was not cool. Taff should know. Being “Bi” in the ‘burbs was no bed of roses either. Maybe that’s why Taff connecting with Kate, Scruff’s wife for whom he bearded, was inevitable. That’s how they moved on the circuit of liaisons. But now, after Kate was gone, Scruff was alone, needing something more than tennis, golf, and mandatory attendance at 7 year old age group swim meets

That hunger he felt then was back. The time lost was a weight. This time with Taff seemed like a reward for wearing that mask of respectability.

The kids and the grandkids were going to come out OK. They would never know about Dad/Gramps’ other world. He and Taff were out to change the trajectory of their futures.

He turned the doorknob and there she was naked, on the bedspread of thé bed that had yet to be turned down. Taff lay on her side, gazing out the glass doors at the boats in the harbor, the bathers at play on the town beach.

“Very good,” he commended her.

“Can’t nobody top me at lying naked on a bed. I took a minor in Private Lewdness in college,” Taff boasted.

“Nice to know your Daddy’s money was well spent.”

” Have we changed sports to Free Style Sarcasm?” Taff quipped

“Not before we have some particularly nasty fucking. Crawl to me, Bitch.”

She climbed off the bed and she did crawl to him, where she kissed his dorky college boy Weejuns, before she kneeled up, unbuckled the belt of his khakis, pulled down his trousers and white boxers. Then she began to fellate him, not waiting for directions, discarding the rules of who would top, who would bottom, who would choreograph this fuck. She wanted him to come. She would happily swallow his jizz, because she wanted this Senior Citizen Preppie to be eating her cunt out with no priapic distraction driving him to hurry and climb on top as if she were a ride at the Amusement Park of Fornication.

“Let’s see what your mouth, tongue and fingers can do,” she thought.

“Your turn, Pretty Boy.” She lay on her back, spread her legs, as Scruff, The Magic White Man, set to work.

He did not disappoint. She would not let him.

“If he thinks he is Mr Satisfaction I ain’t letting him stop til his mouth goes dry.” And so Scruff lapped cunt as he never had before. .

She rode her waves quite well. And when they looked up and noticed the sunset, they knew they were off to a beautiful beginning.

I went to the early Mass, heard the thoughtful homily of Father John David. I saw my buddy Jim. We chatted a bit, then came home and fell asleep.

Nap and Church felt like the perfect Sunday activities. The weather is sunny, around 60° F (16°C). After the freeze the other day, we had some droopy daffodils. I cut them and they opened inside.

J got home about 3:30 PM. We were hungry and went to Carabbas for an early dinner. I had their lasagna, because I was hungry. I found it very satisfying.

On the way over, we saw some people playing cricket 🏏 in my little slice of America. Totally cool.

Now I am tired, yet again.

Later.