I have been awake about two hours. I have watched two trains, #98 and #86, pass through Ashland. I made some coffee, heated a croissant, and read some blog posts. Now I’m watching two English ladies go “mudlarking” on a beach in Yorkshire, I think.

I’m settling in, preparing to go back to bed. The magic of early morning has worn off. My erotic imagination is returning. Stay tuned.

C, #2 son, in addition to Asperger’s Syndrome, has Oppositional Defiant Disorder. He will challenge pretty much anything one says to him. If I told him the sky is blue on a cloudless, sunny day, he would challenge me.

So when I told him the uneven surface of his front porch represents a trip hazard and he could be held legally liable for bodily injuries in the event of an accident, I get a multiplicity of arguments from him. He just needs to correct the situation. Exhausting.

Now, I am calming down so I can sleep. But these little episodes underscore the absence of emotional nurturing in my life. J is angry with C also. So I get concerned with her upset. I don’t feel cared for.

Just have to suck it up. Then figure out a way to talk to J about this need being met. I say this because when I express my needs, she acts hurt and guilty for her shortcomings, with no change on her part.

Night all.

I am awake. I slept three hours. I saw my psychiatrist on Monday, told him I was doing really well, and, for that moment, that was the truth.

Now, I’m not so sure. I have been awake about ninety minutes. I have some body pain. I want to cry. J is asleep. I am watching a Russian who does videos on YouTube, Marina Morlock. She is a chatterbox, but she smiles a lot. And wears red lipstick. What’s not to love? She sounds like Natasha from the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.

Right now she is showing us Russian women’s underwear, modeling as best she can while holding her Smartphone. Her camerawork is dizzying, at times

Changing the subject, l should have been a plumber. Everybody told me I was smart and should go to college, which I did. My advice to everyone, learn a trade. Forget college.

Every negative thought I have ever had or felt about every human being whoever lived is coming into my consciousness right now, including myself.

I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do. Going to try another nap.

It isn’t as if most days aren’t all about me. C’mon now. But Sunday was about brunch and visiting with C, yesterday was a doctor visit, shopping, cooking, and writing. So today, I’m not going anywhere, except a meeting and the Y. And I will sit, maybe write, fix homemade macaroni and cheese, and do nothing more strenuous than that stuff.

I was particularly pleased with the eye round I fixed last night.   Dinner was well-received. Today, who knows what I will fix. I did buy a two pound bag of Brussels sprouts. They taste great sauteed. Maybe with some roasted chicken breasts and brown rice.

More later.

Later:

It is 0614. I hear the train horn for Amtrak #86, Northbound, all the way To New York City. The lights are a geometric kaleidoscope on the Virtual Railfan camera lens. More rain. Stay in.

J is taking her shower. Will she work longer than the hours for which she is scheduled? Who knows?

I decided a roast chicken is a good dinner choice with stuffing and mashed potstoes. Maybe buy some dinner rolls. I

I need a good massage.

Jacqui took her back pack, slung it over one shoulder, adjusted the ball cap to a particularly jaunty angle, reflecting a studied nonchalance. She strode across the tracks, then climbed the steps of the Inn. It was almost picture book, Hallmark Channel quaint. But she sensed she wasn’t the first Woman With A Certain Attitude who crossed its threshold

“Oliveira, Jacqui. I’m here with Mr Poindexter.”

” Ah yes. I see. Welcome to the Inn, uh Jacqui?”

Sensing the clerk’s confusion around the gender she presented, she offered a title, “That’s Master Oliveira, Grace.”, reading the name off her ID badge. This was the first time she got to choose her own honorific.

” Of course. Again, welcome, Master Oliveira. Here is your key to the Hanover Suite. The elevator is to my right, should you prefer.”

“Thank you, but the stairs will do nicely.”

“The suite is to the left at the top of the stairs,” Grace added, as Jacqui strode toward the stair landing.

Jacqui easily climbed the stairs, turned, knocked twice, then put the plastic card in the reader.

Upon seeing “Dex” sitting on the bed, legs extended, watching TV, she walked to him, but not before stopping to turn off the television at the set. She took his chin in one hand, looked him squarely in the eyes, then slapped him with the leather gloves she gripped in the other hand.

“Why are your clothes still on? Why aren’t you on the floor, ready to kiss my boots, and where is your collar?”

“Let’s start over, shall we? Get naked. Now.”

She watched as he took off his Brooks Brothers shirt, slipped off the Gucci loafers, (those buckles, she thought, cringe worthy.) Next the khakis, and the banal over the calf socks.

He stood, facing her, in his white undershirt, and “tighty whitey” briefs (More cringing. Just No.)

“Stop right there.” She walked behind him, took her Buck knife from its sheath, opened the blade, and cut the shirt and the briefs from his body. She made big cuts on each side of the shorts. And then meticulously cut the shirt down each sleeve from the crew neck and, then down the back. His body now was surrounded by patches of white, as if the cotton knit jersey material was a cloud and Dex, magnificent and nude, was some Renaissance Prince in a fresco, ascending to Heaven.

She gave one cheek of his buttocks a slap, to see how the gloves would redden them. She noticed the JO tattoo, done in red and bordered in black, then walked around to face him. She looked at his chest, pleased to see the titanium nipple rings, then to his belly, assessing the frequency and efficacy of his exercise regimen, then to his penis, erect from Jacqui’s robust scrutiny.

She noted the absence of hair at his crotch, particularly on his organ and scrotum.

“Kyle does a thorough job, doesn’t he?”, Kyle being the Gay aesthetician, at the Brazilian waxing salon, that she researched and where she ordered Dex to go.

“Yes Mistress.”

“No Dex. From now on I am Master.” He corrected himself, addressing her with her now preferred honorific .

She walked behind him again, slapped his other ass cheek, commanded him to spread his cheeks in order to inspect his now hairless ass crack.

So what do they say at the gym Pretty Boy?Do the other men check you out, all naked, pierced and inked?”

“I suppose they do, but I try not to draw attention. I don’t want to get tossed out. It’s a family place, not a meat market.”

“So it is, Sport.”

” I’m not through getting you ready. Get your collar. Present it to me, respectfully, on your knees.” He obeyed.

She assessed her work, with her desired adornments.then buckled the collar at the nape of his neck.Tbe titanium O ring at his Adam’s apple matched the nipple rings. Reaching in her back pack, she took two silver chains, fastened both to th collar’s O ring and one to each nipple ring.

” That should make you very aware of your place, boy., just in case the butt plug makes you too, uh, complacent.”

“Butt plug?” he thought. Again she reached in the back pack for the plug and, thankfully, he thought, the lube.

“Now let’s get you dressed. Not to worry, we’re not putting on too grand an exhibition.”  She tossed him a pair of women’s silk panties, with a seam down the back parting the ass cheeks. They were black with pink bows at the leg openings.

“Your regular clothes will do. Put them back on. You won’t need a tee shirt. How about dinner at that restaurant down the street ?”

To be continued.

I never had much trouble with the Coronavirus. However, the Heineken virus, the Jameson virus, the Guinness virus, and the Chianti virus all did a number on me, back in the day.

“What do you care what other people think?” – Arline Feynman.

Jacqui looked at her reflection in the train window in the approaching night. She was still stunned, and even more excited at whom she saw. She was finally all grown up, for forty plus years, since Jimmy Carter, for Chrissakes. Women have done damn near everything and here she was, proud of a bloody haircut. She liked the sides, high and tight, and the top, with that pompadour, held in place by that pomade. She smelled it faintly. It contrasted with the smell of her leather jacket, the one she longed for since she saw Brando in The Wild One. One day, she would get the bike, but the train would do for now.

Jacqui liked her look in the chambray work shirt. She felt her nipples press against the ribbed knit of the wife-beater A-shirt she wore underneath it. She felt FREE, as only a widowed retired civil servant with three grown children could feel, after decades of station wagons, then minivans, soccer matches, dance recitals, swim meets, graduations and weddings could feel. It was freedom, like it felt when the care-taking for dying parents and then a dying husband was over.

How she came to know the man waiting for her in the bed and breakfast country inn right by the railroad depot was equally enigmatic. The Magic of Coincidence. How powerful she felt when he freely offered his strength to her. But that would be his story.

Now she settled back, reminiscing when her earlier bad-ass self would have a box of Marlboro Reds in the pocket of that shirt and she would be peeling the label off an over-priced greenie of Heineken in between taking swigs from that same green bottle. Those days of trying on characters, personae,to see how they would fit and feel, as if they were another of those god-awful pantsuits, had long gone.. Those days, those memories peeled away, like that bloody label. And that is where that man waiting for her entered her story.

Memory is one thing. Right Now is another. She was living a dream that was all too real, too vital, too precious to ignore. Her sorority sisters at Tight Ass U wouldn’t get it, so she photoshopped some pictures of herself in sensible clothes to keep them from wanting to know more. Those were all on the Facebook Page, her entry in The Pulitzer Prize For Fiction And yes, she was named after that Jacqueline. Did she have to tell you she was a Scorpio baby of 1960?

But this Right Now is what gripped her, like the shrink to fit 501’s gripped her ass and pressed the dildo she was packing against her thigh. She looked at the shine on her boots, the gleam of her belt buckle. She felt the muscles in her core made prominent from the swimming and the weights. She felt the power in her thighs from the cycling. Her body was the garment of her spirit. Her clothes, her butch wannabe affectation , were like cream cheese frosting on a carrot cake. Nice, but totally unnecessary.

“Ashland! Ashland is the next station stop.”

was the call from the conductor. She pulled her back pack from the overhead rack, donned her Mets ball cap, and climbed off the train.

To be continued.

C took us for brunch at Indianfields Tavern on Rte 5, roughly midway between Richmond and Williamsburg. There is a very nice bike trail running along Rte 5 linking the colonial capital, Williamsburg, with the modern capital, Richmond. The tavern is a converted farmhouse in an area that is one of the oldest continuously settled areas in English speaking North America, 400 years .(St Augustine FL Santa Fe NM, both originally Spanish sites, are older).

The tavern serves a nice brunch in a very friendly atmosphere. There is a comfortable decor, not at all stuffy.

The food is great. I had a hash bowl with shredded pork, hash browns and a poached egg. J had the old stand by, bacon and eggs. Chad had eggs Benedict. All of it was typical brunch fare, consistent with the ambience of a lazy Sunday in late Winter, bearing the promise of Spring. They make their own ice cream. How can anything go wrong?

C likes the place a lot. We had not been in a while. We reminded ourselves to return when the weather is warmer. There is plenty of seating for al fresco dining

C gave us a house tour of his new home. It is a classic Fifties rancher. He has a cool baby blue (think Carolina Tar Heel blue) tile bathroom with matching fixtures. True Fifties quaint, if you are into that Midcentury look. He has vintage kitchen cabinets, lots of hardwood floors. There is much potential. I think his community is next for a degree of gentrification, older homes, with good prices. There is a new high school under construction, replacing an older building.

However, I digress a bit. J had a good time, once she was sure nothing would go awry. I was too tired for Mass this afternoon. She is there now. I may recline some more.

Life is good.